Darkness
by DalekCyberAngel
Summary: Sherlock is hiding a medical condition from those around him. How are they going to react when they learn of this? What is it that they are going to do to help him? Especially as he's too stubborn to let them see him at his weak and vulnerable moments.
1. Chapter 1

AN:This is set just after A Study in Pink and before The Blind Banker

I hope you enjoy it :)

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When John had come home from work, he was tired and annoyed. He didn't have many patients today, but the ones he did have were the type of patients he hated. Quite a few of them kept insisting that they were ill when there was nothing wrong with them, it was normal for them to experience a slight headache when out in the heat too long, it simply meant that they were dehydrated and needed to cool down. That was just some of the patients he'd had. The others were flat out stubborn and refused to listen to him. If you want to lose the infection quickly then take the prescription, if you do not wish to be sleeping in a hospital bed within the next few days then take the pills, making you drowsy is a side-effect, it doesn't mean that you should stop taking the medication, it doesn't mean the medication isn't working, it's simply your body's reaction to it. He put a hand to his forehead and rubbed it, he could feel a stress headache coming on. He only hoped Sherlock wasn't going to text him about a case or wasn't going to be much of a handful with his experiments.

When he entered the flat he went straight into his room for some fresh clothes and went into the bathroom for a shower. He needed that. The sudden temperature change in the weather had caught up with him today, yesterday it was cold and raining, today it was hot and you'd believe it was the middle of summer not the start of spring. Of course, he'd worn extra because they hadn't quite left winter yet and because of today's heat he'd gotten rather hot and sweaty. It felt good to wash off all the sweat.

When he got out of the shower, he was suddenly aware of how quiet the place was. That wasn't normal. He's been living with Sherlock for two months now; quiet is not something that regularly happens. No, he could normally hear Sherlock banging and crashing, doing all kinds of things with his experiments, the only time he is quiet is when he's thinking, but even then John can still hear him muttering away to himself. Getting dressed, he grabbed his gun from his bedroom and slowly walked downstairs; he entered the living room and looked around. Sherlock wasn't prattling around, he wasn't making all kinds of noises because of his experiments, John was beginning to doubt that Sherlock was even in the room. Until he looked towards the couch.

Sherlock was curled up tightly on the floor to the side of the couch, his arms were folded over his face and his thin form was shaking. Violently. John put his gun away and ran towards the huddled form calling out his name. Sherlock flinched and curled up even tighter. John knelt down beside Sherlock, put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and called his name once more.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?" He said, his voice panicked and with concern.

A low guttural moan came from the man.

"Look at me, Sherlock. Are you hurt?" He asked.

Sherlock flinched again, his shaking grew worse. Another low guttural moan came; John leaned in to see if he could hear anything.

"Shhhhhh."

John pulled back from confusion. What was going on? He turned around and towards the door.

"Mrs. Hudson!" He called. Maybe she would know what was going on.

John's concern grew when he heard Sherlock cry out in pain. John forced himself to calm and to analyse the situation. Sherlock's curled up tightly on the floor to the side of the couch, in a small square part of the room that was hidden from the afternoon sun, his arms covering his face; he seems to flinch a lot when John talks and he cried out in pain when he shouted. Conclusion, Sherlock has a bad headache; he's experiencing a migraine or a cluster headache. He ruled out the last option, cluster headaches are extremely rare, occur regularly and those who suffer from them do not have this particular reaction.

"Yoo-hoo." Came Mrs. Hudson's cheery tone.

John looked towards her and the moment she saw Sherlock she lowered her voice. She came over and knelt down beside him, whispering as she spoke.

"Migraine?"

A groan was her response. John took this as confirmation. He began thinking. What were the common migraine cures? Some people take pills while others have their medication injected into them. Which one would Sherlock have?

Mrs. Hudson had turned to John, "John, can you close all the curtains and make sure there's no sound or light?"

John stood up, eager to help while Mrs. Hudson disappeared into the bathroom Sherlock has, he closed the curtains and made sure that there were no light coming from them and that his steps weren't making a sound. She returned carrying a small grey case and a glass of water.

"John, we need to roll him over. We need to be careful though, he might throw up."

John put his hands on Sherlock's knee and chest while Mrs. Hudson put a hand on his shoulder. Together, they gently rolled him over and onto his back; John winced as he heard Sherlock gag. The movement jarring his nauseated stomach and his agonised head.

"Sherlock, you're out of your medication. I only have the tablets." She whispered putting two tablets into the glass of water.

Sherlock groaned.

"I know, but I've got your anti-nausea ones, it should work."

Mrs. Hudson indicated to John to help lift Sherlock. John took Sherlock's right arm, Mrs. Hudson took his left and slowly they moved Sherlock's arms away from his face and lifted him so that his back was against the wall. John could not stop his jaw from dropping. Sherlock's usually pale face was deathly white, his eyes were shut tightly and tears were slowly making their way down his sharp cheeks that seemed even more prominent because of his pale colour. Sherlock immediately hugged his knees to his chest as if to protect his trembling form.

"Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said gently, "I need you to drink this."

Sherlock only groaned and raised a trembling hand. Mrs. Hudson handed him the glass, Sherlock drank half of the cup before putting the glass down. He buried his head into his knees. Mrs. Hudson ran a hand through his dark locks before speaking again.

"When did this start?"

"20 minutes ago." Sherlock voice was low and agonised. Muffled against his knees, "Woke up from nap, made it two steps until I fell."

John realised that Sherlock wasn't speaking in full sentences, it shocked him as that is something Sherlock would never do.

"Why didn't you call me?"

"Phone's on table and you couldn't hear me."

John was suddenly given the mental image of Sherlock curled up on the floor, trying to call for Mrs. Hudson but not wanting to give his head more pain. He shook his head as if to shake the image away.

John stupidly asked, "How are you feeling?" He regretted it immediately once realising how stupid he sounded.

"I'm fine. I'll be fine. There's no need to worry, John." Sherlock replied, still as stubborn as ever and refusing to admit he's actually not.

John rolled his eyes and said, "Yes, Sherlock, you're the poster boy of health." He then looked at Mrs. Hudson, "Shouldn't we get him off the floor?

"Bedroom or couch?"

A groan was heard but neither of them could make out the word. John leaned in closer and asked Sherlock to repeat himself.

"Bedroom's darker."

John took Sherlock's right arm, Mrs. Hudson took Sherlock's left, slowly they lifted Sherlock together, once Sherlock was upright and off the floor his head rolled onto John's shoulder.

"No. No. No. No. No." He mumbled in quick succession, too concerned about throwing up to be embarrassed.

John could only stroke Sherlock's back in a comforting gesture before they slowly made their way to Sherlock's bedroom. Once in the room, Sherlock lowered himself onto his bed and hid under the sheet. Covering his head more than his body. He wasn't trembling so much but it was still very present. Mrs. Hudson gestured for John to follow her out of the room.

"There's no need to worry, John. Sherlock will stay in there for a few hours and come out with a bad headache."

"Why didn't he tell me?" John asked barely concealed anger in his voice.

"Sherlock doesn't tell anyone. We always find out ourselves. He sees it as a weakness. He's going to be in a bad mood later because you've seen him and he's going to feel like you won't treat him the same."

"Why would he think that?" John asked confused.

"Sherlock's a really proud man, no matter how many times I tell him he always believes that the next person who find out won't treat him the same." Mrs. Hudson turned to walk away, "One thing, make sure he has his medication. You do not want to witness Sherlock without his medication." Mrs. Hudson shuddered as she remembered the time Sherlock was all out of medication. It was definitely a moment she did not want to happen again.

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AN: That's it for the first chapter. I hope you enjoyed it; I'm not that keen on the ending, it feels weak to me. I regularly suffer from migraines and I just really wanted to write a story where Sherlock would suffer migraines, especially given how he works and what he does. Seems like a challenging story to me.

Anyway, hope you enjoyed it. Have a nice day :)

~Steffii


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock sat down on a chair at the kitchen table, he gasped when a stabbing pain started behind his right eye. Not again. He can control the pain, mind over matter, he can stop it before it gets any worse. Slowly, it travelled top his head, quickly growing stronger. He can control it. Mind over matter. If he continued with his experiments then that would stop it, he wouldn't be able to feel it because he would be too distracted to notice it. Within 30 minutes he had to stop, his head couldn't handle anymore. The pain had quickly gotten worse making the light feel like needles in his eyes and the bubbles popping from the burning chemicals sounded like gunfire.

He turned off the experiment, walked into his bedroom, closed the curtains and went through his bedside drawers. He should have some kind of medication, even if it was just his pills. His injections may work quicker, but even his pills seemed adequate enough right now. What was taking so long? He really needed to go through this. He was finding small boxes with things from previous experiments, papers related to previous case. Was that the ring from the Giyunder case 4 months ago? He never did give it back to Lestrade. Sherlock soon lost all patience and threw the drawer out, tipping it upside down and emptying it of its contents, papers, boxes, bullet holders, bullet cases, pencils, unlabeled chemical, and finally, his small box of pain pills. Sherlock sagged in relief as he picked up the small box, pushing out 2 pills and swallowing them, hating how weak and desperate he was being. He hated relying on his medication; it was stupid, relying on it made him feel weak and desperate, but he also knew it can't be helped; sometimes you just have to take it. Sherlock was beginning to wish he had replaced the cold compress, he had used it for an experiment last week which resulted in the chemical burning through it and creating a massive hole, John had been angry at him, ordered him to replace it; Sherlock had gotten distracted by a case and forgot. He was desperately wishing he hadn't.

Sherlock climbed into bed, curling up tightly and throwing the duvet over his head. He lay there, relishing in the darkness, trying to fight off the nausea building up, trying to ignore the pain in his head and behind his eyes. It wasn't working, the medication would need a while to work, and he only hoped he wouldn't vomit. Vomiting would mean throwing up the pills he had just taken, making it completely pointless for him to have taken them in the first place, then there would be the urge to take them again, but not knowing if he would vomit the pills back up for a second time.

He was lying there for 5 minutes, at least, what he thought was 5 minutes until his phone beeped, indicating that he had a message; he groaned and pulled it out, opening up the message. Sherlock winced and fought back an onslaught of tears as the light assaulted his eyes.

'Lestrade has a case for you.'

Sherlock didn't reply, instead, he tossed his phone at the floor, not caring if it broke, he was in too much pain. There was no chance of him going outside to observe a crime scene for Lestrade. The bright sunlight would practically render him blind! He would be useless but not as useless as Anderson. He doesn't care how interesting the case is, he won't leave the bed until the migraine goes.

It was another 5 minutes until his phone beeped again. Sherlock groaned, he was hoping that the battery had fallen out as it does when he simply drops it from the table, or where he's sitting on the sofa. Out of all the times it didn't fall out, it chose now? It chose now to stay inside the phone? Sherlock groaned again, from pain and stupidity when he realised something.

His phone was on repeat, every two minutes. His phone will beep every two minutes, indicating that he had an unread message, and it will do this until he reads the message. Deciding it was best not to wait for it to go off again, he slowly sat up, fighting off the rush of nausea as he moved into an upright position and searched the room. It was by the door, too far out for him to stretch across and reach it. He would have to stand up to reach it. That is what he did; he stood up and walked towards his phone, ignoring the sudden dizzy feeling he had as he sat down against the wall to pick it up, before he could read the message though, his phone started to ring. Biting back a groan, disgusted by how weak he was being, he answered.

"Hello, Sherlock, didn't you get my messages?"

He winced; John's voice hurt him, "Yes."

"Are you going to help?" He asked.

"No."

"Why not? It's an interesting case and Lestrade needs your help." John's voice was that of disbelief. His voice had gotten louder to show it.

It took all of Sherlock's will power not to throw the phone at the wall.

"Busy." He replied, short and clipped.

"Sherlock, you're not busy."

"I a-"

Sherlock stopped, his eyes widened as an onslaught of nausea attacked. He could feel the bile rising up his throat, he tried to force it back down but it wouldn't stay down. He lunged towards the bin by his bedside table, retching into it, vomiting the bile and the pills, spiking another wave of agony everytime he heaved. He could just about make out John's worried calls.

"Sherlock? Are you okay? Are you alright? Answer me, Sherlock! I'm coming home, Sherlock!"

Sherlock sat back gasping as he wiped a hand across his mouth. That little episode just made taking pain pills pointless. He put a shaking hand to his ear; he was still holding his phone.

"John, don' come home. 'm fine." He said, voice shaking slightly.

"Sherlock, you are not fine. You just threw up! What part of that says fine?" John replied angrily. He really did hate it when Sherlock put off his own health.

Sherlock put the phone down, his migraine was growing stronger and he desperately wished he hadn't thrown up his medication. He probably wouldn't of if John hadn't rung him; it was all John's fault. Great, now he was being completely irrational, it couldn't have been John's fault for him vomiting, it was his body's fault. His body's fault for being so weak and needy, for betraying him, he hated it. Sherlock sat back against the wall, brought his knees to his chest and buried his head into his knees, getting rid of what little light there was in the room.

His perception of time was screwing up; he had no idea if it had been 5 minutes or an hour when he heard John rushing up the stairs, there was a muffled shout and then the footsteps were getting louder, and finally, the door opened.

"Sherlock?" John called.

Sherlock didn't bother to lift his head or even talk, he made a slight noise that sounded more like a whimper and stayed exactly where he was. He could hear John kneel down beside him.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?"

Sherlock bit his lip to stop himself from groaning and pulled his knees closer.

"Sherlock, I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong." John said while putting a hand on Sherlock's knee, "Are you in pain, Sherlock?"

Sherlock buried his head deeper into his knees. He couldn't help it, but his head felt like it was exploding.

"Is this one of your migraines?" He asked, his voice a lot quieter than before.

Sherlock only groaned in response.

"Why didn't you tell me?" He whispered angrily, "I'm a doctor! I can help!" John sighed and calmed down, "Have you taken your medication?"

"Yes." Sherlock said, hoping he didn't sound as pained as he felt.

"But, you threw up, so you brought it back up, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Do you have any anti-nausea pills? No, don't answer that. You've already vomited, they won't work." John said his voice as quiet as he can possibly make it, "What can I do, Sherlock? How can I help?"

"Makin' i' dark." Oh, god, did he have to sound that bad? It sounded all weak and pathetic.

"Sherlock, I can't turn the sun off. The room's as dark as I can get it."

"Fine." Sherlock grumbled.

"Sherlock, do you have any other medication?" John asked.

"Only pills."

"Are there any other ways? What if I got you a damp cloth or something?"

"Pos'bly."

Sherlock could feel a tug on his arm; John was trying to get him to stand up.

"Come on, Sherlock, lie down in bed. I'll get a damp cloth."

As Sherlock climbed onto the bed, he tried his best not to curl up again as he stretched out across it. He heard John leave but return a few moments later. A damp cloth was put on his forehead above his eyes. Just before John closed the door, Sherlock thought he could hear John say,

"You're an idiot sometimes."

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AN: I'm sorry if there are any medical inaccuracies, I don't know the medical stuff, I may experience migraines, but I don't know the medical stuff that comes with it. Most of this is research. If anyone finds any inaccuracies can let me know, please?.

The cloth thing is something that I've heard works for many people when their medication doesn't. Something to do with calming down their nerves and making the feel cooler.

Anyway, hope you enjoyed it, have a nice day :)

~Steffii


	3. Chapter 3

AN:This one is actually based on my own personal experience I had with a migraine several weeks ago when walking home.

Warning: If you're someone that doesn't like reading swear words, then avoid this chapter. If you're someone who hates bad spelling, then avoid the part where Sherlock uses his phone.

I hope you enjoy it :)

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Have you ever been in so much pain that you've just wanted to stop what you're doing, drop everything that was in your hands and curl up? Sherlock has. He was feeling like it right now, but he wasn't home yet, so he couldn't.

He had been expecting the migraine to happen, the sudden temperature change they had within a few hours was bound to set him off. The morning was cold and stormy, it had been pouring down with rain with thunder and lightning whilst remaining really cold. An hour later there wasn't a cloud in the sky and it was boiling hot, getting to the highest of 23°C. Sudden temperature changes always did bring out the worst of migraines in him, and the way the weather's been just lately, he's just been getting more and more. The temperature would be really high, as to where many people were wandering the streets in shorts and without shirts, to really cold where everyone would be needing coats within several hours.

Sherlock had tried his best to prevent it, he had drunk more water than normal to keep himself hydrated, he had avoided using his and John's laptop and his phone, he put an ice-pack on top of his forehead and laid down on the settee with it until it had all practically melted, he had tried everything he knew but it was just unavoidable. Lestrade came to him with a case at 1pm, Sherlock had climbed into the cab a little later and then it hit him. Like a ton of bricks falling down, it hit him. He couldn't stop his involuntary gasp of pain that earned him a look of concern from the driver.

"I'm fine just drive." Sherlock said.

He didn't have his medication, with the constant migraine attacks he had used them all up, and some of those times they hadn't even worked. So even if he did have them it was likely they wouldn't work. He put his arm against the cab door, brought his hand to his head to cover his eyes and leant against his hand with his eyes shut to protect them from the glaring sun. He stayed like that throughout the entire ride, only moving when he had to pay the driver and leave.

He kept his eyes open like normal, despite the glaring sun that was causing tears to form. His face was impassive like normal and he walked into the crime scene, he was grateful that the murder had taken at a house and not outside, he wasn't sure if he could handle it outside, he probably would but he'd look pretty pathetic and weak in front of everyone. He found out some information from Lestrade and looked around the scene. He forced himself to ignore his pain.

Male, mid 40's, accountant…. _No, that's not right, shit. _No, he was an accountant, if his clothes were anything to go by. He felt a stab of pain behind his right eye and shut his eyes tightly. _Shit, please don't start. _He opened them and carried on observing the scene_. _Right handed, 2 dogs, wife has them… or is it 3? _The dogs aren't important!_ _Stop looking at that and move onto how he died! _Strangled by some sort of cloth, a scarf? _That's stupid; nobody wears scarves in this heat. _But it was definitely some sort of cloth. Attacked from behind, must have turned his back. _Great deduction, Sherlock, he won't be getting attacked from behind if he's looking at them._ Sherlock bent down to examine the man's arm. Burn marks, small and circular, cigarette burns, but he doesn't smoke and neither does the wife. _There are no ashtrays and no ash, but that's the only explanation, unless it was lit and pushed into his arm._ Could be his children or friends. Sherlock looked up and dark circles started to form in the vision of his right eye. _Shit! Please stop soon, I can't do this as well with one eye. _Sherlock stood up slowly; he didn't want to start feeling nauseous and examined the room. _Why is my mind being so slow? It's just a bit of pain. Mind over matter, it will stop! Focus, Sherlock!_ There was a picture on the wall, the dead man, wife and 2 children, 1 of them adopted, both spoilt with money. One of the children must have done it, which makes sense, must have denied giving one of them money. _I'm not sure, it makes sense. Oh, god, why does thinking have to hurt? Was Donovan talking?_

"What's the matter, Freak? Can't find out anything? A case finally stumped you? Took long enough." She said in contempt.

"Sergeant Donovan, stop it." Lestrade warned.

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath. That helped. He calmed down slightly, the pain lessoned. He forced himself to remain calm and collected as he turned to tell Lestrade what he'd found out, trying to ignore the concerned look that crossed the older mans face. He had wanted to tell Lestrade all of his deductions, informing Lestrade that the man was an accountant, has lots of money, spoilt the kids with it, was strangled by some sort of cloth, cigarette burns on his arm and to interrogate one of the mans sons. What he did say was something short and clipped, proving to Lestrade that his suspicions were correct and that he was currently in a lot of pain.

"Interrogate his children. One of them strangled him." He said, his voice tight as he forced it to remain neutral, it didn't work too well.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" Lestrade asked sounding concerned.

"I'm fine, go interrogate his children." Sherlock said.

He then turned to leave, putting his hands in his pockets to feel for some money. He panicked, there was nothing there, he could feel his phone, his keys and his lock picking kit. Surely he picked up some money earlier? He must have done! He couldn't remember. He would have to walk. Where was he? Chalcot Road. With his speed that would be at least 40 minutes to walk! Sherlock groaned, squinting as he went outside and started to walk, rather slowly, home. Despite the heat he was starting to feel cold, he didn't have his coat or scarf, only his suit jacket, you'd be foolish to wear a coat in this weather. He crossed his arms together and pulled his jacket closer, he kept his head done to avoid the light and kept to the shadows. He still couldn't see too well out of his right eye, the spots taking up most of his vision, pressing down against the nerves and making his eye feel horrendously painful. He could feel sweat running down his back as the heat got to him, but he still felt cold, he wanted to take his jacket off but he just felt too cold. His head as pounding with every step he took, slowly getting worse as the minutes passed.

Sherlock was unsure of how long he had been walking for when he needed help; he didn't want to admit it though. Why would he? He's not supposed to be weak, he's not supposed to be relying on others, he's supposed to be strong and independent! Not this weak man who was now crying tears of pain. He was on Prince Albert Road, all he needed to do was walk through the park that Outer Circle was around and he'd be home! But he knew he wouldn't be able to, not on his own.

He could feel it, he wondered how long it would take, he's never had a migraine without feeling sick before. The nausea was rising; he could feel something working its way up his throat. He closed his eyes, feeling slight relieved to shut out the light and threw up on the path in front of him, managing to get some of it on the bottom of his trousers and his shoes. He carried on vomiting, until he fell to his knees and his head started throbbing in time with each heave. He did this until he couldn't any more, using his hands to keep him steady despite his trembling arms. Several people walked past him, each of them exclaiming in disgust and calling him a drunken arse. Sherlock stayed there, on his knees using his hands as support, gasping heavily not willing to open his eyes or to stand yet.

Slowly he opened his eyes, sighing in relief when he realised that the black spots no longer remained and slowly stood up, he'd need to keep going, he wasn't going to stop there, not now. Sherlock forced his legs to move, they were weak and trembling from the pain his head was causing him. He opened his eyes to cross the road, squinting against the bright sunlight as he entered the park. _Why does this have so hurt so much? Why can't I be like John? He only gets headaches that stop when he takes paracetamol. I always have to be different. So different that I can't even get normal headaches. _He was starting to wallow in self-pity! That was stupid. That wasn't going to accomplish anything.

He walked into the park, keeping his head down, being sure to avoid the people walking past and crossing his trembling arms to keep himself warm. Even though he could feel sweat running down his face and back making his thin blue shirt stick to him, he still felt cold. Too cold to be out in his suit. The sweat on his back was making him uncomfortable, he wanted to remove his jacket but he was too cold to do so. His whole form was trembling from it.

He looked around trying to ignore the tears now forming in his eyes, all the benches were taken, so he couldn't sit on them to get some rest, he'd have to sit down on the grass. Putting his head back down, he walked over to the grass, he didn't make it far until his weak legs gave up on him and he fell to the ground with a small and surprised yelp, the fall jarring his agonising head. He lay there, keeping his eyes shut, relishing in the position he was in and the darkness. He must have landed in some shade; it was the only explanation for why there was some form of darkness. He opened his eyes, he was right; he had landed under a thick tree with lots of leave that was producing a lot of shade. He wanted to stay there, but he knew he had to get home, even though the upright position made him worse he still needed to get home. That small amount of darkness from the shade stopped his eyes from stinging so much and calmed the stabbing pain in his head.

Sherlock lay there for a while on his side, the curled up position he had landed in helped calm his stomach down, his eyes shut, his arms slowly climbing upwards to cover his face, that for him was automatic, his legs half curled and brought up close. Sherlock knew he couldn't stay like that, he needed to get home, he had experiments to work on, emails to send and a website to run, he couldn't stay out here waiting for a migraine to leave. He could hear people all around him, he could hear the cars driving past, it was only making his head hurt more, he could hear someone running on the grass, they seemed to be getting closer. He hoped they weren't running towards him. He pulled out his phone, with his eyes barely open, he started a new text.

_'Lesreade? Is tjis Lesdtrade? – SH'_

Sherlock wasn't paying any attention to his spelling, he only hoped the message went to Lestrade and if it went to the wrong person then that person would tell him. The reply was immediate and so was the voice from the person running.

"Sir, are you okay?" The voice belonged to a young woman, she sounded panicked and worried. She must have seen him collapse.

Sherlock ignored her and looked at the message.

_'Yes. Sherlock, what is it? ~ GL'_

Despite being in the shade, opening his eyes to read Lestrade's reply caused tears to roll down his face. He couldn't see the buttons he was tapping to reply to the text.

_'Cam yuo cimr anf collercty me/ - SJ'_

"Sir, please, tell me what's wrong. Do you need and ambulance?" She sounded calmer than before but still concerned.

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at her. She was kneeling down beside him, blocking out more light. He forced out a few words, "No hospital. I'll be fine." And immediately closed his eyes again.

She didn't seem to believe him, "Are you sure? Do you need an ambulance?"

Sherlock shook his head. He didn't need an ambulance, he needed to get home. His phone vibrated and he squinted as he read his next text.

_'Are you hurt? Where are you? ~ GL'_

_'The prak to the righft of Ouetr Cicrel. Gto mugiraine. Please hruuy – SG'_

"Sir, there's something wrong; I can't leave you here to suffer."

She was a Good Samaritan, Sherlock hated those kinds of people, they would never leave him alone. What took her so long to realise something was wrong? The trembling of his body? The paleness in his face? The pain written in his posture? Sherlock thought sarcastically.

"Lestrade's coming, he'll help." Sherlock forced out, his voice was tight from pain and was trembling like the rest of him.

_'I'm coming, Sherlock ~ GL'_

Sherlock felt weak and pathetic, he was relying on Lestrade to take him home and there was this woman here refusing to leave him alone. He needed to get up and walk, he shouldn't be lying here on the ground, why wasn't he moving? He dropped his phone and moved his hands to his ears; everything was starting to get louder. It was making his head feel worse, if that were even possible, he felt as if it were going to explode. _Make it stop, please. It's too loud, someone make it all stop, please, make it stop. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts!_ Sherlock scrunched his eyes shut tightly, as if the lack of sight would make a difference on his hearing, the lack of light only calmed the pain in his eyes but it intensified the sounds which made the pain in his head worse. He could just about make out the woman's voice.

"Sir, please tell me what's wrong. What's hurting you? What do you want to stop?"

She sounded panicked, she had heard what he thought, that wasn't good. She can't call an ambulance, Lestrade will be here soon, everything will be fine when Lestrade gets here, he'll take him back to Baker Street where he can rest and get rid of this pain. Once Lestrade gets here, he'll be fine. Sherlock forced himself to relax, when did he start breathing quicker? He was close to hyperventilating, his breath was coming in short pained gasps, he needed to relax, hyperventilating will only make it worse.

"Sir, you need to relax. Listen to my voice; take some deep breaths, in and out, in and out. Keep doing that, Sir, in and out slowly." The woman said in a soothing tone. _She's too calm; she must be studying to be a nurse or she already is one._

Slowly, Sherlock calmed down, he didn't remove his hands from his ears, nor did he open his eyes but his breathing calmed down and he relaxed slightly, his form not trembling so much.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock lifted his head slightly and opened his eyes, that was Lestrade's voice, Lestrade was here, he can take him home and away from all these noises and light.

"Is that your name?" The woman asked. "He's calling for you, I'll go get him."

Sherlock groaned, he may have been in the shade but the woman was blocking the sun and extra light, now that she wasn't there the sun was glaring at him making his eyes fill with tears of pain. When was Lestrade going to get here? Sherlock didn't know how long it had been, but soon there were hands gently tugging at his arms and pulling his hands away from his ears.

"Have you had your medication?" Lestrade whispered.

Sherlock relaxed, Lestrade was here, Lestrade can help. He looked at him and gently shook his head. He felt a hand come to his forehead and move some of his curls away from his face.

"Okay, what about at home?" He asked.

"It's all gone." Sherlock mumbled. He was an idiot and used it all up the other day. John said he'd pick up some more on the way home after work.

Lestrade nodded, "Sherlock, do you think you can walk?"

Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes briefly. He felt Lestrade wrap his right arm around his shoulder and he felt another arm go around his waist.

"I've parked the car around the corner. Think you can make it that far?" Lestrade murmured.

Sherlock nodded once more and closed his eyes completely as Lestrade slowly lifted him up. Though Lestrade was slow and gentle, the upright position did his stomach no good and he could feel the nausea rising.

"You ready?" Lestrade asked quietly.

"Yes." Sherlock murmured.

The walk to the car was slow and painful, his legs were trembling and his head was getting worse with each step. It must have been the vertical position making him worse. He let out a groan of pain as his head landed on Lestrade's shoulder.

"It's okay, we're nearly there." Lestrade said soothingly, "Just a few more steps."

Lestrade was right; there were only a few more steps until they had reached the car. Lestrade had gently lowered Sherlock into the passenger seat and made his way into the other side. Sherlock did the same thing as he in the cab; he put his arm against the door, covered his eyes with his hand and leaned into it.

"Sherlock, if you think you're going to be sick, just say and I will stop the car."

Sherlock replied with a grunt, he just wanted his migraine to go. He wanted the weather to stay at on temperature, not to constantly keep changing. It was either hot or cold, not both. Why did sudden temperature change have to affect him so much? He hated it; the summer weather was practically famous for it. If the temperature were to change then it should do it slowly, not go from cold to absolutely boiling within the space of an hour as it did earlier!

The drive to Baker Street was short and quick, Lestrade helped him climb out of the car and into the flat. Sherlock leant heavily on the older man as they walked up the stairs. Sherlock's form was trembling so much that he was surprised Lestrade hasn't accidentally dropped him.

"I'm taking you to your bedroom." Lestrade whispered.

Sherlock could only grunt, which then turned into a little moan of pain. _Oh, god, why do migraines have to hurt so much? _The walk to his bedroom felt even longer but at least he could open his eyes to darkness instead of burning bright light. Lestrade gently lowered him onto the bed; Sherlock kicked his shoes off and buried his head under the pillows with a mumbled "Thank you."

Lestrade put a hand on his shoulder and rubbed it gently.

"I'm just going outside to call John to see when he can get home. Shout if you need anything." He whispered.

Sherlock gave another grunt as a response, his migraine was calming down now that he was inside and amongst the darkness, it still hurt terribly, but Sherlock was glad it was calming down. He felt a hand reach under the pillow and ruffle his hair.

"Next time, Sunshine, tell me when you have a migraine, I don't want to see you suffering at a crime scene again." Lestrade said. "Or ever again." He added as an afterthought.

* * *

AN: I'm sorry, I didn't feel satisfied with the original and the feeling didn't leave until after I rewrote this. Again, sorry.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Have a nice day :)

~Steffii


	4. Chapter 4

AN: Blame Omegle for this not being uploaded sooner. I got distracted roleplaying.

* * *

Lestrade chuckled down the phone, "You've just got to leave him to it, John."

John scoffed, "He won't tell me anything, Greg. The only thing I know about his migraines is what I've seen. He's too stubborn to tell me anything."

Lestrade rubbed a hand against his face as he sat down in the armchair, "John, you're a doctor; the only thing you can do is watch him closely. I've been handling Sherlock with his migraines for five years and I still have trouble recognising the signs."

"How did you learn of them then?" John asked, "I can't imagine Sherlock coming straight out and telling you. I didn't find out until he was curled up on the floor two months after moving in."

"You found out sooner than me. Try five months later while chasing a suspect." That was a moment in Greg's life he knew he would never forget.

"You were chasing a suspect?" John repeated in disbelief.

"Sherlock won't let a migraine stop him from a case." Lestrade replied remembering a time Sherlock had a particularly nasty one and still refused to rest. "I've had to drag him home to get him to rest and even then he still wouldn't." _Not until I had to hold him down and stroke his hair until he passed out, fell asleep or got better. Whichever one came first. _He added mentally, he wasn't going to tell John that.

* * *

They had been on the case for three days, and they still weren't any close to catching him as when it had started. It was a string of murders, one in the morning and one in the evening, a female murder in the evening and a male murder in the morning. All of them were found with a gunshot wound just above their abdomen. Sherlock had more or less snuck in on the first one and from what he knows, hasn't rested since; he was running on caffeine and adrenaline. Sherlock was sitting in his office, refusing to leave, trying to predict where the next murder would occur.

"Think about it, Lestrade." Sherlock said pointing at the pictures, "The first female victim was found at Paddington Green, the second was found at Regent Park and the third at Winfield House Grounds. He's attacking women that go through the park on their ways home. Where are the other parks?" Sherlock asked, mostly to himself.

Lestrade rubbed a hand across his face and looked at Sherlock, "I don't know, Sherlock."

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair as he paced around the DI's office, clearly growing frustrated.

Lestrade watched him with growing concern, he could tell there was something off about the young man, something just wasn't right, but what? He seemed paler than before, but three nights without sleeping and eating would do that to a person, his pacing was slower than his normal speed, again, Lestrade chalked this up to the fact of that Sherlock could simply be exhausted.

"Are you okay, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked, voicing his concern.

Sherlock paused in his pacing momentarily before waving a hand dismissively, "I'm fine."

Had it not been winter and had the windows not been smashed as well as the Yard heating failing to work, he would have found it rather concerning that Sherlock's hand was trembling slightly. Though, it was extremely cold in his office, he knew that he was going to start shivering if it got any colder. And Sherlock was only wearing his suit and a rather thin coat. Despite his concern for his… friend? Could he consider Sherlock a friend? It was far too soon to tell. Lestrade forced himself to focus on the case, Sherlock was simply exhausted, nothing more.

Lestrade looked down at the evidence. If they could find out the other place tonight, they may not be able to prevent another murder but they might catch the person committing this crime. First, Paddington Green, then Regent Park and finally Winfield House Grounds, the only other park Lestrade could think of was Kensington Gardens and that isn't even close to the other three. He knew there was another one; it was sitting in the back of his mind. If only his computer was working, he could probably load up a map of London. Lestrade groaned in frustration and ran a hand through his dark hair.

He looked up to find Sherlock had stopped pacing, Sherlock was waving his hands about and muttering to himself, Lestrade just about caught the final word – Primrose Hill, before Sherlock then dashed out of his office, a little slower than normal.

Lestrade sighed, he'd need to gather his team up first before rushing to Primrose Hill, but the problem is that he doesn't even know if that's where the killer will be. He can't simply go on Sherlock's word, it was far more complicated. Regardless of this, Lestrade gathered up his team and quickly took off to Primrose Hill. Once arriving, he ordered his team to be very careful and to spread put, look around everywhere. If this was the next location then they will need to be very careful. It was roughly 9pm and very dark; Lestrade had pulled a small torch from his coat pocket and turned it on to help him see. The last three murders at a park had all been called in at roughly 10pm; the victim had been lying on the ground for no more than an hour. They were going to be very close to catching the criminal, under the assumption this was the place.

Lestrade treaded carefully around the park, it was all mostly dead grass and trees without leaves. He had a gun in one hand and a torch in the other. Pointing his torch ahead but at the ground, it was too risky to point it higher up, not with the chance of a serial killer arriving. Lestrade wasn't too sure how long he had been wandering around for, he had checked the hill, looked through several trees and was now searching the flat part near the path when he saw some feet. Putting himself on high alert, he slowly raised his torch until it was pointing at the figures face.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade hissed angrily, watching as Sherlock closed his eyes and shielded his face with his arm.

"Lower your torch, Lestrade!" Sherlock hissed back.

Lestrade kept his torch on Sherlock's face for a second longer before lowering it. "What are you doing here, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked angrily, keeping his voice down in case the killer is around.

"Finding your killer." Sherlock hissed turning his back to Lestrade.

Lestrade walked ahead of Sherlock and turned to face him. "Sherlock, I've told you that you are not to go off on your own! It's too dangerous!"

"You'll never find your criminals if I didn't do this." Sherlock protested turning away from Lestrade and walking away.

Lestrade was about to walk after Sherlock, he'd need to keep the younger man close, it wasn't safe for him to be wandering around on his own, when an arm wrapped around his neck and a gun was cocked and put against the side of his head.

"Well, Inspector, I've been wondering how long it would take you to find me." A voice whispered in his ear. "Now throw your weapon down and I won't shoot you."

Lestrade forced himself to remain calm as he tossed his gun forward, making sure it landed near Sherlock who had turned to face them when he heard the gun cock.

"Now who's going to stop me from shooting you?" The voice whispered again.

Lestrade didn't talk; he watched Sherlock closely as the younger man knelt down and pointed the gun towards the killer. From what Lestrade could see, Sherlock's hand was trembling but he could tell it wasn't because of the cold, something else was making Sherlock tremble. Fear? Lestrade would need Sherlock to calm down first, if Sherlock were to fire the gun, with his hand trembling the way it is, then it'll be likely the bullet would get him instead of the killer. Lestrade's gaze lowered from Sherlock to the torch in his hand, the killer only told him to lower his weapon not his torch. When he looked back up at Sherlock he realised Sherlock had glanced down at the torch, when their eyes met, Lestrade winked at Sherlock, hoping Sherlock's trembling hand would stop soon if this was going to work properly.

Lestrade turned his torch off and started to talk to the killer, "Do you know one of the biggest mistakes you've just made?"

He felt the man pull back, "What mistake?" He was clearly confused; the grip around his neck had loosened slightly.

"This." Lestrade replied, within rapid succession he then turned his torch back on and threw it upwards, the torch flew upwards spinning slightly.

Lestrade felt the killer's head move to follow it, with the arm around his neck now looser than before, he was then able to fling his head back and break the man's nose. The man stumbled back, raising his free hand to cover his nose, the torch hitting the ground with a heavy thud. When the man regained his bearings, which was far sooner than expected, he lunged at Lestrade. Lestrade grunted as he hit the ground, unable to reach his radio to call for help, he had to rely on Sherlock, whose hand was still trembling far too much as he watched Lestrade with his eyes wide.

"Do it, Sherlock!" Lestrade shouted trying to kick the man off him. "Take a shot, Sherlock!"

After a slight struggle, Lestrade soon heard the gun go off and the man on top of him go limp. Lestrade rolled out from underneath the man and stood up, looking at the man (a shoulder wound coming in from behind, not a kill shot.) and then up at Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes were wide as he stared at the man, the gun was still trembling in his hand until he dropped it, his mouth was open slightly in shock, and were those tears in his eyes?

Lestrade sat up and it dawned on him. Sherlock Holmes has never shot a person before, that's why he looks so shocked, he's chased suspects, he's been around murder victims, and he's had to knock suspects out. But he's never had to shoot one before. This reaction was expected from him, but not the next.

As Lestrade stood up, Sherlock gripped the side of his head and sat down. Fell down seemed far more suitable, but Sherlock had swayed slightly before sitting down on the ground. Lestrade went over to him and knelt down beside him, placing his hands on Sherlock's arms.

"Sherlock, look at me." Lestrade said quietly and calmly.

When Sherlock didn't move, Lestrade repeated himself.

"Sherlock, look at me."

As Sherlock raised his head, Lestrade looked around, hearing the footsteps of his team. He would need to leave Sherlock alone, his team were here, this was now a crime scene and he had a job to do. Lestrade stood up and started bellowing out orders.

"Sergeant Schofield, that man is our serial killer, you will need to arrest him and ring for an ambulance. We can interrogate him once the bullet has been removed."

"Sergeant Grayson, this is now a crime scene, you will need to ring the Yard to get all the supplies required in order to process the scene."

Lestrade then knelt down beside Sherlock, holding his arm and hauled him up. He could feel Sherlock trembling and knew it wasn't from the cold or the adrenaline rush wearing off.

"Sergeant Schofield, you are in charge of this. I need to get Sherlock home." Even though he knew that it was going against the rules to leave a crime scene without proper authority being in charge, tonight was a night Sherlock could not be left alone. Schofield is likely to be promoted to soon anyway; this will just help him get the experience.

Lestrade helped Sherlock walk away from the scene. He frowned, Sherlock had seemed to be in complete control when he saw him at the park before the killer, but now he seemed to have trouble walking on his own two feet. The shock was expected, Lestrade was trembling a lot after making his first shot years ago, but Sherlock's just seems far worse.

"Sherlock," He whispered into the younger man's ear, "Are you feeling okay?"

The only response he got was a groan. It sounded a lot like a groan of pain. Was Sherlock hurt? Lestrade turned to look at him.

"Sherlock, we're nearly by my car."

The walk was a slow one, but when they made it to the car Lestrade opened the door and helped Sherlock in before entering in on his side. He looked towards Sherlock and felt his concern grow. Sherlock had a hand over his eyes, he was paler than he was when they were in his office and he was still trembling. Lestrade couldn't blame this on shock, this was something different, it was obvious.

"Sherlock, what is going on?!" Lestrade demanded.

The only response he got was a slight groan and a small mumble, "Shush, 'Strade. Got a headache."

Lestrade gave Sherlock an odd look as he turned on the car but he still lowered his voice, "Slight overreaction for a headache, Sherlock."

Lestrade turned on the car, watching Sherlock warily from the corner of his eye, his concern growing ever so slightly when he saw Sherlock shift in his seat or groan. When the car stopped outside Sherlock's flat, Lestrade turned to face Sherlock.

"Sherlock, this is more than a headache."

Sherlock turned to look towards Lestrade. It was then he noticed the tear stains on Sherlock's face, something he hadn't seen since Sherlock's drug withdrawal when he was in a lot of pain.

"Migraine, 'Strade." Sherlock muttered, cheeks flushing from embarrassment.

Lestrade nodded slightly taken aback. It was the thought of Sherlock getting something so… normal. He may have only known him for five months; Sherlock would act as if he was so above that, despite helping him go through the drug withdrawal.

"Think you can walk in?" Lestrade asked looking towards Sherlock's flat.

"Yes." Sherlock replied distastefully, climbing out of the car.

Lestrade watched Sherlock walk to his flat and followed him, Sherlock was trembling and he was walking slower than normal, but he had managed to stop the trembling in his hands long enough to insert the key, turn it and then open the door. Sherlock was being stubborn, he was in pain and his legs were trembling but he was too proud to simply ask for help. Lestrade followed closely behind Sherlock as they walked up the stairs, just in case Sherlock did fall over, it wouldn't be good to have a moody Sherlock in pain from a migraine and injured.

Once in Sherlock's flat, Lestrade watched as Sherlock threw his keys onto the table, and then proceed to remove both his coat and his suit jacket, to then roll his sleeves of his shirt up. The only light provided was from the street lamps outside. Lestrade looked around Sherlock's flat, to say it was a mess was an understatement, his niece and nephew bedrooms weren't nearly as messy as Sherlock's flat and they were teenagers! Papers, books, equipment, things he wasn't too sure he wanted to go near were lying across the table, on the chairs, scattered across the floor.

Lestrade took his attention away from the mess and brought it back to the man in pain. Sherlock's eyes were scarcely open, his form was trembling and he was slowly making his way through the living room and into, what could possibly be his bedroom. Lestrade followed him into the room.

It was rather clean compared to the other room. A few books and paper and equipment lying around the floor and on top of the desk of drawers, but nothing much compared to the state of the living room. Lestrade barely had time to react when he suddenly had his arms full of a rather thick duvet. Sherlock had all but thrown the duvet at him as he urgently kicked off his shoes (socks with them), pulled off his trousers, leaving him in just a shirt and underwear and climbed onto the bed and under a sizeable blue blanket, closing his eyes and going to hide under it. Lestrade looked down at the duvet and then at Sherlock.

"What do you want me to do with this?" He asked, keeping his voice low.

Lestrade had to lean in close to hear Sherlock's response, "Use it as you sleep on the sofa. It's obvious you're going to stay."

Lestrade wanted to know why Sherlock thought he was staying, but Sherlock's reply was whispered and in pain. He didn't want to give Sherlock even more pain by making him answer another question. He's had his experience with migraines, he knows how much they hurt, it wouldn't be any different just because it's Sherlock experiencing them. Though, most of his were only stress related.

"Sherlock," Lestrade whispered, "Have you taken anything to help the pain?" God knows he always needed something for his migraines.

"Yes." Sherlock murmured, "Don't need it again; it's only a minor one."

Lestrade nodded, "I'll be on the couch, call if you need anything."

"Might need a bin, haven't vomited yet, always vomit when I have one." Sherlock mumbled.

Lestrade nodded once more, looking around the room and bringing the small bin next to Sherlock's wardrobe and putting it beside Sherlock's bed, the side in which Lestrade believed he was facing. It was slightly harder considering he could only see the top of Sherlock's head, and that only revealed his messy curls. Lestrade sighed, picked up the duvet Sherlock had thrown at him and walked back into the living room, it would be a long time until he could sleep and Lestrade chose to spend that time looking around at Sherlock's "experiments" and thinking about what Sherlock had meant by "minor". If minor meant trembling, letting out barely audible groans and small moans, nausea, clearly being sensitive to light and sound, as well as tears from pain, he'd hate to imagine what Sherlock classed as "major". After what may possibly have been an hour or two, Lestrade walked back into Sherlock's room, smiling softly when he saw that Sherlock's head had come out from the blanket and that the younger man was clearly asleep. Closing the door quietly, Lestrade then walked away from Sherlock's bedroom and out of the flat. He can check on Sherlock in the morning, after he had gotten some sleep himself.

* * *

"So he treats his migraines the same way he treats eating and sleeping when he's on a case?" John asked.

"Not the same way." Lestrade corrected, "But it is similar, he will take something to help him deal with the pain, but he won't rest."

John sighed, "Not only do I have to make sure he eats and sleeps, but I also have to watch him for migraines." He then whispered, "The bloody idiot."

Lestrade chuckled, "You've just got to watch him, John, and make sure he takes something before the pain becomes too much. He'll try to solve the case regardless of how much pain he is in and how he's reacting to the migraine."

There was silence on the other end for a while, but soon there was a crash followed quickly by a shout. "John!"

"I need to hang up now, Greg. I think Sherlock's just got himself hurt because of an experiment. Again."

There was another shout for John, followed by the unmistakeable sound of glass smashing. Lestrade could barely make out John saying bye as he just laughed softly, snapping his phone shut and putting it down on the coffee table in front of him. He wondered briefly what Sherlock had managed to do this time.

* * *

AN: If any of the places are incorrect for any reason whatsoever, it's because I Google Mapped it like I did with the previous chapter. I live in Chatham, not London, though it may only be an hour away from London by train, I've never been to it.

That thing Lestrade did with his torch, I did that a few years ago when I was getting bullied, I figured if it could work on four bullies then it could work on a serial killer.

I can feel Mycroft getting involved soon. Hmm… That'll be interesting.

I hope you enjoyed it, have a nice day :)

~Steffii


	5. Chapter 5

AN: Blame my neighbour for why this took a while. He's building a car from scratch; it is literally just the shell of the car. It's been distracting and annoying me all week.

* * *

"How is he?" Greg asked when he entered the kitchen.

John looked up from the tea he was making. "It's worse than his normal ones." John replied with a grimace.

Lestrade winced slightly and looked past John and towards Sherlock's bedroom door.

John sighed, "How does he do it, Greg? He says the migraine started this morning at eleven, I didn't notice until a few hours later when he threw up everywhere, even then he refused to rest. I've only just been able to get him into bed and that was after he decided to throw up all over the criminal." John rubbed a hand over his face and passed the DI a cup of tea. "How does he do it? I've seen stronger men pass out over less."

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders, "Stubbornness and sheer will power?" He supplied.

"He needs to learn when to rest." John replied drinking from his tea.

"Unlikely, Doctor Watson, my brother can be very stubborn when his mind is focused on a case."

John turned around to see a new occupant in the kitchen. "And who let you in, Mycroft?" John asked, he didn't remember hearing the doorbell, unless Sherlock's broken it again.

"Your landlady." Mycroft replied as if it were obvious.

John shook his head, "Of course."

"And how is my brother, Doctor Watson?" Mycroft asked in a tone of what John believed portrayed concern.

Lestrade put his cup down on the kitchen counter and spoke up before John could. "Shouldn't you already know that?"

Mycroft turned to him, "Contrary to belief, Inspector, I cannot and do not watch Sherlock all the time."

"But shouldn't you at least know that Sherlock's in bed with a migraine?" John pointed out, slightly confused about why Mycroft was here.

"I should, yes." Mycroft replied sounding annoyed, "Had Sherlock not destroyed the cameras I had around Baker Street."

"And what about a phone call, Mycroft?" John asked.

Mycroft had a tight smile, "You didn't answer."

John's eyebrows came together and he started patting down his pockets. "I must have left it in my coat." He mumbled apologetically. John shot a worried glance to his left, looking down the hall and at Sherlock's bedroom door. "I should probably check on him, make sure he hasn't choked on his own vomit or thrown the cold compress away."

"Ah, Doctor Watson." Mycroft called interrupting John's thought process and making him come to a halt by the fridge, "That has never worked."

John stopped confused, "What do you mean?"

"I have been managing Sherlock with his migraines for many years, we have tried the cold compress solution many times, not once has it ever worked on Sherlock." Mycroft explained slowly.

John shook his head, "It has done before. I came home from work and found Sherlock with it on his forehead. Mycroft, Sherlock's been having trouble controlling the pain, we're trying new ways to control them and calm the pain. Today it's with a cold compress, next time will be caffeine."

"Caffeine?" Lestrade repeated confused, "I thought you wanted him to sleep, won't caffeine wake him up?"

"At a certain point in his migraine, if Sherlock were to drink coffee, then it will help expand the constricted blood vessel and hopefully calm the pain." John explained. "I've had several patients come to me when they've wanted a new prescription; they seem to believe it works."

Lestrade nodded dumbly as he tried to make sense of what he was just told. He would need to remember that when he had a stress induced one brought on by work.

John disappeared into Sherlock's bedroom, when he returned Lestrade and Mycroft were talking quietly to each other, Lestrade was in Sherlock's chair and Mycroft was on the couch.

John sighed and put the cold compress into the fridge wishing Mycroft was actually wrong for once and that the cold compress did actually work. John shook his head, picked up his tea and made his way to the living room to sit on his chair.

"And how is my brother now?" Mycroft asked his voice holding an unrecognisable tone.

John looked towards Mycroft and then drank some more of his tea. "The bucket is still empty, so he hasn't vomited again, he isn't asleep but he isn't hiding under his pillow anymore which is a good sign." John then sighed, "You were right." John admitted his voice sounding disappointed, "The cold compress hasn't helped as much as I hoped it would."

"As I said, John, I've been managing Sherlock with his migraines for many years, it has never worked then and it won't work now." Mycroft repeated sounding slightly smug but a little dismal.

John opened his mouth to reply but was halted when he heard the familiar sound of Sherlock's door squeaking open. John frowned, put his tea down on the floor beside his chair and stood up. Sherlock trudged out of the room slowly, his gait was slow and unsteady likely to still be dizzy or nauseous, his head was down to stop the offending light coming in from the windows, a blue blanket covered his trembling shoulders, and he appeared to be heading towards the couch. Though they couldn't possibly understand why Sherlock had chosen to leave the dark confines of his bedroom for the bright living room. John walked over to Sherlock and put a hand on the younger man's shoulder and stopping him from continuing.

"Sherlock, stop, you need to be in bed resting." John murmured softly yet sternly.

The only response was a moan as Sherlock tried to shrug John's hand off his shoulder.

"No, Sherlock, you need to rest."

Sherlock slowly made his way to the couch, ignoring John's orders to return to bed. Once on the couch, Sherlock had wriggled around slowly and carefully so that he doesn't jostle his head or stomach too much. Sherlock had curled up under the blanket and was slowly bringing his aching head down onto Mycroft's shoulder.

Mycroft tutted quietly as he looked down at Sherlock and wrapped an arm around him to pull him closer. He was looking down at Sherlock with what could have only been concern as he raised a hand and stroked a stray curl away from Sherlock's eyes.

John blinked, was his mouth open? He closed his mouth and blinked once more, he had never seen Sherlock snuggle up to anyone, let alone Mycroft of all people. He looked towards Lestrade, who appeared almost as stunned.

Mycroft looked up from his little brother, "Shall we continue?" He said, his voice quieter than before so not to cause Sherlock anymore pain.

John nodded, slowly getting over his shock and sitting back down in his chair. John looked towards Sherlock, hating how stubborn the younger man was as he winced in pain once more.

Lestrade cleared his throat causing John and Mycroft to turn towards him and then continued talking. It was hard to keep his voice quiet but still want Mycroft to hear him.

Mycroft's attention kept drifting from the conversation to Sherlock as he waited for him to fall asleep. He had a hand in Sherlock's curls and was stroking them trying to comfort him; he leaned down slightly to whisper in Sherlock's ear.

"You need to be in bed, Lock."

The only response was a slight moan and small shake of Sherlock's head.

"It's darker and quieter in there." Mycroft pointed out.

This time there was only a small shake of his head.

"Stop being stubborn, Lock. You're in pain."

Sherlock curled up tighter and shifted his head slightly on Mycroft's shoulder. Mycroft shook his head slowly and rested his chin in Sherlock's hair as he thought on what to do. Shortly after, Mycroft began humming a soft melody, only humming; he didn't want Lestrade or John hearing him, nor did he want to cause Sherlock anymore pain using his voice. It was an old melody, something their mother used to sing to them when they were ill or upset, and he used when their mother couldn't. It had its desired effect, he could feel Sherlock slowly relaxing under him, his pained breaths slowing down, the quiet moans he thought Mycroft couldn't hear decreasing, Sherlock's breathing deepened and he was finally asleep.

"I have been waiting for him to do that since we returned." John mumbled relieved when he saw that Sherlock was finally asleep.

Mycroft paid no attention to John; he looked down at Sherlock and moved slowly, trying to remove Sherlock from him without waking the younger man up. It proved more difficult than expected, what with Sherlock letting out small pained moans when his head was jostled too much and his hand reaching out from the blanket to hold onto Mycroft's jacket. Mycroft didn't react as he gently pried Sherlock's fingers off him and tucked them back under the blanket. Mycroft took one last look at Sherlock, his hand stroking through the younger man's curls once more and turned to face the other two men in the room.

"Sherlock will be rather irritable when he wakes up, only a warning." Mycroft informed John with a tight smile.

John nodded, "He normally is."

"But even more so." Mycroft added, he picked up his umbrella, frowning down at Sherlock and then left without a single word.

John watched Mycroft leave and then turned to Lestrade. The older man was holding his phone close to him with a smirk on his face. John looked at him confused he turned towards the door, then at Sherlock and back at Lestrade.

"Did you record that?" He asked quietly, unsure if Mycroft had officially left.

Lestrade looked up from his phone and nodded.

"Pictures or video?"

"Both." Lestrade mumbled.

The pair waited several minutes, the only noises was the sound of breathing and Sherlock's soft snores with the occasional moan.

"They won't find out." Lestrade said looking back down at his phone.

John nodded and looked at Sherlock. "Be best if we leave him there for now."

Lestrade agreed and turned back to his phone stifling his laughter as he watched the video.

* * *

John pinched the bridge of his nose. Mycroft was right; Sherlock was far more irritable than usual. Demanding John to do the simple little things, ordering John to be quiet when he's the one making all the noise, firing off into his deductions and not leaving a single thing out, no matter how horrible they were. He'd reduced three clients to tears, one of them were in hysterics! He ignored almost everything he was told, and responded to everything he didn't ignore with a snide remark or rude comment. It wasn't much different than his usuall self, except Sherlock was acting ruder and harsher.

John sighed before shouting, "You can't keep doing this, Sherlock!"

"Doing what?" Sherlock asked looking from his microscope to John.

"This!" John shouted. He sighed once more and lowered his voice slightly, "I know you're still in pain from your migraine, but there is no need to take it out on the rest of us!"

"I do not take it out on everyone else." Sherlock snarled turning back to his microscope.

"Yes, Sherlock, you do! There was no need to say some of that stuff!"

Sherlock huffed, "It's not my fault they care too much."

"Sherlock, stop. I know you're still in pain," John repeated annoyed, "but you need to know when to stop and you need to stop being so stubborn. Just take some aspirin and the pain will calm down." John nodded to the box of aspirin and glass of water he had put beside Sherlock almost an hour ago.

Sherlock only ignored John and continued looking down the microscope. John shook his head and walked away, he wouldn't get through to Sherlock today but maybe some other time. John smirked as he walked up the stairs; Lestrade still had the video and picture, that could be used as some kind of leverage to get Sherlock to behave.

* * *

AN: That caffeine thing, I did my research for it. It's believed to work best when the one suffering drinks coffee at the mid-point of their migraine. Yeah, I don't know, I hate coffee so I've never tested it myself.

Also, have you noticed in The Great Game that John says "Lucky for you, I've been more than a little unemployed."? I think that's John saying he's lost his job, which then means I have to think carefully about the next set of chapters unless he does actually have one.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this. Have a nice day :)

~Steffii


	6. Chapter 6

AN: It was actually **Katie Lee**'s review that got me into gear with this chapter. I'm sorry this took so long. I'm back at College, I've got two assignments to work on, updating this story will take a while, as most of my free time is taken up by doing my assignments. And this was an extremely hard chapter to write.

* * *

He smiles maliciously at the screen. He just loves seeing Sherlock at his most vulnerable! Watching the Consulting Detective as the emotions run through him – fear, panic, pain. All before they are pushed away and Sherlock was back to his usual, sociopathic self. It is so easy to hack into Mycroft's cameras, it's almost disappointing. Almost. Seeing Sherlock completely vulnerable made up for most of the disappointment. But watching the detective work made him feel ecstatic, watching him fire through his deductions, chase down criminals.

He winces slightly as he watches the bullet tear through Sherlock's shoulder; he won't be using that arm for a while. Oh, and it is Sherlock's right shoulder! That is going to make Sherlock far more interesting to watch on the cameras, considering the man is right-handed. He watches Sherlock squirm (he loves it when Sherlock squirms!), raise his left hand to press down on his bullet wound and push himself up. His grin grows wider, Sherlock is fighting back! What did he do to deserve this? It is almost like Christmas had come early. Almost. It would be better if Sherlock had a weapon, or is showing his pain instead of keeping that impassive mask on or a number of reasons.

Sherlock is going to be so fun to play with. So much fun. He can't wait until it's time! It's too soon though, he hasn't finished his plans yet, he needs to finish his plans before he decides to get the Consulting Detective's attention.

His smile falters slightly when he came away from his thoughts. A gun is currently pointing at Sherlock's head. No, no, no! Sherlock can't die there! He needs Sherlock to live so that he can play the game! It won't be fun without Sherlock. Sherlock's the reason he's even creating the game. He needs someone to match his intelligence. Normal people are so boring! He groans in frustration and continues watching the screen. Sherlock really should have waited for his pet Inspector to arrive first. He turns the screen off, knowing the outcome of this already. Sherlock won't die, he never does, his pet Inspector will come running in at the last minute and save Sherlock.

Not only does he watch Sherlock through the cameras, but he also follows his website – _The Science of Deduction_. He just loves reading about how Sherlock works, his experiments, and how his deductions are made. He especially loves the experiment about the evaporation rate of the fluids in a glow stick! The mental image it gives him amuses him for hours! It is because of Sherlock's deductions that he met his Tiger. The website has a case uploaded; the case is about a sniper murdering four bank accountants and the CEO of the bank. Sherlock mentions how to recognise a well-trained, extremely loyal sniper. This is how he recognises Sebastian Moran, his Tiger, as a well-trained and extremely loyal sniper.

He remains like this, watching Sherlock through Mycroft's cameras and following his website. Waiting for his plans to finally be complete, watching every move Sherlock makes (When he wasn't busy with his web, of course). He is pretty certain he knows Sherlock very well now. Knows what makes him tick, knows where he's been hurt, what he does, how he acts. He is also certain that he knows Sherlock's migraine triggers better than the man himself.

He is experiencing one right now. But he isn't sitting in front of a computer, no. He is currently inside Sherlock's flat, the one along Montague Street. Sherlock's stupid landlord clearly doesn't understand how postmen work; otherwise he wouldn't be inside Sherlock's flat right now. Right now he's James from the post office, he's holding a small square box, there's a clock inside the box. To let Sherlock know that time is ticking, that it won't be long until the game starts. But Sherlock won't realise this. He knows what Sherlock will do, he'll keep the clock and try to make sense of why it's there, but once he declares it tedious then he'll be rid of it or he might experiment on it first. He puts the box down on the empty table and slowly walks towards the half conscious figure curled up on the couch. There's an acrid smell of vomit, but he knows that's because of the bucket placed in front of the couch. He stops right in front of Sherlock, pushing the bucket away with his right foot, he leans in.

"Oh, Sherlock." He murmurs softly, ridding himself of his Irish accent. He can see that Sherlock hears him, if the flinch in his pained features is anything to go by. "Just look at you." He reaches a hand out, but stops halfway through. He shouldn't do that. Sherlock may only be half conscious, but if he were to touch him, and if Sherlock were to open his eyes, then that would ruin his plans. Sherlock would then be able to recognise when they meet. He can't risk that happening.

Sherlock releases a groan. He smiles when he hears it, Sherlock is vulnerable right now, he could do anything to him. But he can't. So he chooses to stand there and watch. Sherlock squirms slightly, sweat trickles across Sherlock's forehead falling down sideways, the pained look on his face grows clearer. He can do anything to Sherlock right now and Sherlock wouldn't be able to stop him.

"Not much longer now, Sherlock." He whispers. Sherlock flinches once more at his voice and he continues, "I can do anything to you, Sherlock." His voice sounds slightly threatening, "You're so vulnerable right now. I can do anything." He repeats, "But I won't. Not today though, but soon, Sherlock." He finishes. Even though he kept his voice quiet, Sherlock still flinches and whimpers in pain. He looks down at Sherlock, looking at the agonised face, listening to that tiny whimper of pain, before pulling back; he places the bucket back to its previous position, and turns to leave.

He watches it many times. Watches as Sherlock tries to ignore the pain, tries to reason himself that it doesn't matter, tries to deduce crime scenes, catch criminals, finish experiments, even get himself out of a hostage situation, all with a migraine. Watches him fail miserably time and time again. Of course, it is fairly interesting; Sherlock seems to react differently nearly every time. His pet Inspector struggling multiple times to get Sherlock to rest, but now he has a pet Army Doctor, which is just as, if not, more fun than watching the Inspector struggle. Sherlock's stubbornness definitely knows how to rile the Army Doctor up. But it gets boring when he succeeds, when Sherlock actually listens and climbs into bed to rest, it is boring and ordinary! He doesn't like that Sherlock.

It is getting closer now; he knows it won't be long. He's working in an IT room at St. Bart's now, so it certainly won't be much longer. It is painfully boring, and he wants to harm those who ask the stupid questions and annoy him, but he convinces himself it is worth it. Worth it so that he can get Sherlock to play his game. He needs to pick up Molly now, take her to the Great Queen Street Restaurant, act like a caring boyfriend, pretending that he really wants to know her, and wants to pursue a romantic relationship with her. He much rather wants to stay watching the screen. He can see the tremble in Sherlock's hand, the slight grimace on his face, the tiniest tilt of his head, he's having another migraine, and as he's on a stake-out trying to catch a criminal, it will be a very interesting thing to watch. But he needs to go through with his plan. He needs to take Molly out in order for his plan to work. It will all go wrong if he doesn't show up.

He actually met Sherlock yesterday, but not as himself, as Jim from IT. Sherlock failed to look through his disguise, he noticed that the disguise made him look gay, but he didn't look past the disguise. He didn't recognise his voice either. This was moving along perfectly! Molly didn't meet him later that day like she said she would, it doesn't matter, he doesn't need her anymore. He's got what he wants, now all he needs is for Sherlock to solve the final puzzle, then they can actually meet. Not as James the postman. Not as Jim from IT. As James Moriarty, the world's only Consulting Criminal. He just couldn't wait! It is going to happen soon! He could feel it. Sherlock only needs to solve the final puzzle, then they can meet. Properly. But this time, only one will survive, and he certainly wasn't going to die anytime soon.

After watching Sherlock for so long, he knows the other man's migraine triggers. And one of them is smells. He's absolutely convinced one of Sherlock's migraine triggers is smells. The hostage situation, Sherlock said it himself, the man holding him hostage had smelt of strong, skunk like cologne, mould, and… He couldn't remember what else, but Sherlock had said to his pet Inspector that certain smells are guaranteed to give him a migraine. So when Sherlock updates his blog, stating that he wishes to meet at the pool. He nearly weeps for joy. Pools always smell strongly of chlorine when it's late at night, it's how they help get them clean and ready for the next day. Not only will he be meeting Sherlock as himself, but there's also a chance Sherlock will be experiencing a migraine because of the smell! This is going to be extremely interesting and very fun!

"I gave you my number." He says, his tone a mocking whine, "I thought you might call."

Sherlock turns towards his voice, but he can't see him. Not yet.

He steps out, looking down and slowly walks towards them. "Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?"

"Both." Sherlock replies pointing the gun at him.

"Jim Moriarty." He says, and it feels so good to actually tell Sherlock his name, "Hi!" He says pulling a childlike tone to his voice. He sees Sherlock turn his head to the side. "Jim? Jim from the hospital?" He feels disappointment that Sherlock doesn't recognise him.

Sherlock places his left hand on the gun. He knows that Sherlock only ever uses one hand when holding a gun. He wonders if it's the start of a migraine.

"Oh, did I really make such a fleeting impression?" He says as he walks closer towards the pair, "But then, I suppose, that was rather the point."

He sees Sherlock look towards his pet, no doubt wondering where the red dot is coming from.

"Don't be silly. Someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hands dirty." He stops in front of a door and directly opposite Sherlock. "I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world."

The smell of chlorine is strong, stronger than he expected. He's slightly disappointed that Sherlock still hasn't said anything, but he thinks part of the reason coincides with two hands being on the gun.

"I'm a specialist, you see." He informs Sherlock, "Like you."

"Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover's nasty sister?" Sherlock says quietly, finally speaking.

He smiles and walks towards them. Sherlock is finally beginning to understand what happened.

"Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?"

"Just so." He says, stopping before them.

"Consulting Criminal. Brilliant."

He sees the gun tremble slightly and a smile tugs at him.

"Isn't it?" He says fondly. "No one ever gets to me. And no one ever will."

"I did." Sherlock says quickly, cocking the gun, a slight grimace pulling at his face.

He ignores that happy feeling bubbling up in him as he realises Sherlock is starting to feel the migraine.

"You've come the closest. Now you're in my way."

"Thank you." Sherlock replies quickly.

"I didn't mean it as a compliment." He says with the same speed.

"Yes, you did." Sherlock responds as quickly as before.

He shrugs his shoulders together almost hunching over, "Yeah, okay, I did. But the flirting's over, Sherlock." And in a singsong voice he says, "Daddy's had enough now." He sees Sherlock fail to hold back the wince of pain at his high pitched voice. Returning his voice back to normal he speaks some more, "I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even thirty million quid, just to get you to come out and play. So take this as a friendly warning, my dear. Back off." He threatens. "Although, I have loved this, this little game of ours." He says fondly, "Playing Jim from IT. Playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear? Playing James the postman."

He sees Sherlock frown slightly as he slowly realises.

He confirms Sherlock's thoughts, "That was me at your flat when you had that migraine. I could have done anything to you."

He sees Sherlock look down and then back up. "People have died." He says quickly, changing the subject. He knows Sherlock hates discussing his migraines. Always making him appear weak. He can see Sherlock has paled slightly since he made his entrance, and he knows exactly why.

"That's what people do!" He shouts, watching Sherlock flinch and bite back a small moan. This is getting better.

"I will stop you." Sherlock threatens quietly.

"No, you won't." He says quickly, dismissively. Not with that migraine coming. Silly Sherlock clearly didn't realise this when he told him to meet there.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asks, looking at his pet. He sees sweat starting to form on Sherlock's forehead.

He walks towards them and leans in. "You can talk, Johnny boy. Go ahead." He encourages, stepping away.

Sherlock holds his left hand towards him. He can see the small tremble in it, and it isn't from any emotion or adrenaline. "Take it."

"Mm?" He hums, moving away from John to see Sherlock holding a small USB stick. "Oh, that? The missile plans." He says reaching out a hand to take it from Sherlock's trembling one, "Boring! I could have got them anywhere." He says throwing it into the pool.

"Sherlock, run!" He hears as John grabs him from behind.

He laughs, "Good! Very good." He says amused.

"If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up." John whispers in his ear. He must also be aware of Sherlock's upcoming migraine.

His snipers are better than that. They won't kill him. He writhes around under Sherlock's pet's grip.

"Isn't he sweet?" He informs Sherlock, noticing the small trickle of sweat sliding down his face, "I can see why you like having him around. But then, people do get so sentimental about their pets. They're so touchingly loyal. But, oops!" He says loudly, this time Sherlock didn't flinch. "You've rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson." He sees the red dot now pointing at Sherlock's head and John reluctantly lets go. "Gotcha!"

He straightens his jacket and slides his hands down it. "Westwood." He says annoyed. "Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock? To you?"

"Oh, let me guess. I get killed." Sherlock replies bored, but his voice tight slightly.

He grimaces slightly at Sherlock's response, "Kill you? No, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm going to kill you anyway, some day. I don't want to rush it, though. I'm saving it up for something special. No, no, no, no, no. If you don't stop prying, I'll burn you. I'll burn the heart out of you." He threatens.

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."

"But we both know that's not quite true." He says shaking his head. He sees Sherlock's left hand gripping his right one tightly to stop the trembling that has slowly increased. "Well, I'd better be off." He says, his tone now light as he looked around. "Well, so nice to have had a proper chat."

"What if I was to shoot you now?" Sherlock asks. "Right now?"

"Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face." He finishes by pulling a fake look of surprise. "Cos I'd be surprised, Sherlock. Really, I would." There isn't much chance Sherlock would do that with his migraine. "And just a teensy bit… disappointed. And of course, you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long. Ciao, Sherlock Holmes." He finishes walking away.

"Catch you… later." He hears Sherlock say.

"No, you won't!" He says in a high pitched tone wishing he could see Sherlock grimace in pain again.

He stands behind the door. He hears Sherlock talking, the semtex being thrown across the floor, Sherlock's pet voicing his concerns for the Detective. He rolls his eyes and walks away, down the dark corridor, signalling for his snipers to return.

"Sorry, boys. I'm so changeable!" He announces stepping through the door and back into the pool room. "It is a weakness with me, but to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness. You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't." He says seriously, "I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind."

He sees Sherlock with his back to him, hunched over slightly, must be resisting the urge to vomit. His left hand is trembling and his right one is straining to remain still.

"Probably my answer has crossed yours." Sherlock says, straightening up, turning around and pointing the gun at him before slowly lowering it to point at the semtex.

He can see Sherlock's forehead is dry, he's wiped off the sweat, but more is beginning to form. Their eyes meet. Though Sherlock's face may remain impassive, his eyes are showing determination and pain. They remain like this for a short time. Then he feels it. Staying Alive starts playing and his pocket is now vibrating. He attempts to ignore it and sees Sherlock look around in confusion.

"Do you mind if I get that?" He asks feeling annoyed.

"On no, please. You've got the rest of your life." Sherlock replies.

He pulls out his phone, feeling annoyed that whoever is calling is interrupting something very important.

"Hello?" He says as he waits for a reply. "Yes, of course it is. What do you want?" He turns mouthing an apology to Sherlock as he listens to the voice on the phone. "Say that again!" He shouts, taking some pleasure in surprising Sherlock and making him wince in pain. "Say that again and know that if you're lying to me, I will find you and I will skin you. Wait." He says and he lowers the phone in his hand. He looks at Sherlock's pale face and walks towards him, stopping by the bomb and apologises, "Sorry, wrong day to die."

Sherlock looks down at the bomb. "Did you get a better offer?" He asks, his voice sounds strained and another bead of sweat trickles down his face once more.

He ignores him. "You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock." He says as he turns to walk away. Sherlock will definitely be hearing from him soon, they need to make up for the interruption. They need to continue this soon. "So if you have what you say you have, I will make you rich. If you don't, I'll make you into shoes." He threatens, he hopes that they do, they need to make up for this interruption. He snaps his fingers, ordering for his snipers to leave as he opens the door and walks away continuing the phone call.

He isn't happy right now. He pushes back the anger inside him. That was his one chance to face Sherlock until the rest of the game continues, why did they have to ring now? He says on final thing before hanging up on the phone and walking away and out of the building. He has other plans to complete first, before he can continue the game with Sherlock.

* * *

AN: If anyone is interested, I have a new story idea that I am willing to give away. It's a multi-personality disorder fic; it can go to whatever fandom you wish, and whichever character you wish. If you want this idea, just send me a message and I will tell you more about it.

So, if this chapter sucks or the pool scene sucks, apart from the reason being because I'm rubbish at writing, the main reason is because it was almost impossible to write the pool scene! I re-watched that scene countless times, and so much happens in a short space of time I found it hard to try and fit in Sherlock's migraine signs. Sorry if it does suck. I seriously believe the pool scene would have been easier from Sherlock's perspective, but I needed it to be from Moriarty's.

I hope you enjoyed this. Have a nice day :)

~Steffii


	7. Chapter 7

AN:** UPDATE:** Let me just say one thing. THANK YOU SO MUCH, KIRSTEN, FOR THE TRANSLATIONS TO THIS! I am extremely grateful you reviewed and corrected my mistakes. THANK YOU!

So, thanks to Moriarty's chapter, I have no idea if I should be writing in past or present tense. This is in present tense, but I would really appreciate it if you all tell me which tense you prefer.

* * *

John dabs the cloth lightly across Sherlock's forehead trying to remove the sweat and lower his fever. He sighs softly as Sherlock kicks the quilt off himself once more, putting the cloth down on the bedside table, he moves to lift the quilt back up and places it on Sherlock's damp chest.

"This is why you shouldn't go swimming in the Thames. One man is easier to save than two." John murmurs to himself.

Sherlock doesn't respond. John doesn't expect him to either because Sherlock is currently in the middle of a fever driven sleep. John places a different damp cloth to rest across Sherlock's sweaty forehead and turns around. He hears the Detective moan in his sleep.

"Violet," He rasps out, "revenir. Où allez-vous?"

John lowers his head, Sherlock has been swapping from English to French all morning, he's always calling out for Violet and Nanny. When he is awake, he isn't lucid enough to understand that he's at Baker Street with John, and wants to know what's happened to Violet and Nanny. He wishes he could understand French, maybe then he would be able to help Sherlock better than he can now. It is beyond frustrating, knowing his friend wants, no, **needs** something from him, but he can't give it to him because he doesn't understand what it is Sherlock needs. He only understands a few words and that is only because he's had several French patients to help.

His pocket vibrates; he takes one last look at the sick man before him and then walks outside the bedroom, pulling his phone out as he does so.

"Hello?" He says, closing Sherlock's door behind him.

"Hi, John." He hears Greg say.

"Greg, how are you feeling?" John asks in a quiet voice so not to wake Sherlock.

"I'm fine." Greg says quickly, but soon corrects himself after a painful groan, "Could be better. How's Sherlock?"

John walks down into the kitchen, hesitating slightly before reply; he didn't want to give Lestrade any more guilt. "As well as he can be for someone who went swimming in the Thames."

"I'm sorry, John." Lestrade apologises, guilt lacing his tone.

"It wasn't your fault, Lestrade. You couldn't have known the suspect was going to push you into the Thames." John replies. He looks down at his watch; he'll have to give Sherlock some more antibiotics soon.

He hears Greg shift around, "That doesn't make it any better. Is there anything I can do to help?" He asks.

"Not unless you can speak French." John says, "You should be resting yourself." He says sternly.

"I am resting!" Lestrade protests, "Sherlock's speaking French?"

John nods despite Lestrade not being able to see, "Yes, he keeps swapping from French to English, always calling for Nanny and Violet. Do you know them?" John turns around; he can hear something coming from Sherlock's room and slowly walks towards it.

"Only that Violet was his Nanny and that her mother tongue is French." He hears Lestrade reply.

As he moves closer towards the door, he realises that the sound from Sherlock's room is the sound of him coughing. "One moment, Greg." He opens the door slowly, looking inside the room. Sherlock is still asleep, but the top half of his body is rising and falling as he coughs. He puts the phone down on the bedside table, removes the cloth from Sherlock forehead, not that it helped much, and sits down beside the sick man, slowly lifting him up and resting him on his chest.

"Come on, Sherlock." He whispers into Sherlock's ear putting on his doctor voice, "I know you can hear me, breathe with me. In and out. In and out. Slowly does it."

Slowly, too slowly for John's liking, the coughs begin to subside and Sherlock's breathing returns to normal. Picking the glass up from the bedside table and encourages Sherlock to drink from it. The coughs have woken Sherlock up, is now drinking small sips from the glass.

"That better?" John asks slowly moving himself from Sherlock.

Sherlock only nods, his throat and chest too sore for him to attempt to talk.

"Get some rest, Sherlock." He says softly.

John looks him over once more before picking up his phone once more and leaving to continue his talk with Greg.

"Sherlock's calling out for his Nanny?" John asks when he remembers what was said before Sherlock's coughing.

"From what I've heard, yes." Greg replies, a grunt of pain slipping from his lips when he finished, "Sherlock was calling out for her when he was detoxing. Don't know what happened to her."

"So I can only listen as Sherlock calls out for her?"

"Yes."

John sighs looking towards Sherlock's room. He can hear some muffled words.

"Nanny, ça fait mal, qu'elle s'arrête."

John bows his head down; he recognises one of the words. One of them means hurt. He isn't sure he wants to know what's going on inside Sherlock's mind.

* * *

_He's curled himself up against the closet wall; it is the darkest room in the house because it has no windows. No windows to let in that horrible sunny light which only hurts his eyes more. He can hear his Nanny calling for him, she sounds scared. He doesn't want her to be scared, but he doesn't want to respond, it only hurts his head even more. He had told Mycroft when it started, but Mycroft sent him away and told him to stop whining, Holmes men don't whine about a silly little headache. Mycroft told him to take some painkillers, but not the ones Mummy takes; they're too much for a little boy like him. He did take some, he doesn't know when (he's not that good with telling the time yet.) but they didn't work and he vomited in the toilet before entering the closet. He doesn't want to go back to Mycroft for help; Mycroft is studying for some very important exams and doesn't want to be interrupted by his little brother whining about a silly little headache._

_"Sherlock!" Nanny calls._

_She sounds scared; he doesn't want his Nanny to be scared. He can hear her opening up the doors to each room, she's getting closer, he doesn't need to call out to her, not when she's coming to him. He presses his head into his legs and presses his hands against his ears. The sound is getting louder, it's too loud for him, it's making his head feel as if it will split open. He hopes Nanny can make it stop, Nanny makes everything stop hurting. She stopped his arm from hurting when he broke it after falling out of the tree. He didn't think that would ever stop hurting! If Nanny could make that stop, then she can make this stop, right? He moans softly into his legs, she is almost here. Then, the door opens and Nanny is kneeling down beside him._

_"Sherlock," She says softly, sounding scared and concerned, "pourquoi êtes-vous ici?"_

_Sherlock moans once more, her soft voice sounding like that gunfire from the crime show Mycroft once watched. He tries to make sense of what she asked him. He soon realises, she's asking why he's in the closet._

_"It hurts, Nanny." He replies quietly, he hopes he replied in French, he knows Nanny isn't that good at English._

_"Qu'est-ce que c'est, Sherlock? Où as-tu mal?" She asks placing a hand upon his knee._

_He avoids moaning this time, curling the hands by his ears into fists and digging his nails into the palms of his hands instead. What was she saying? He needs to think. He needs to focus, but his head is hurting too much. It takes him a while, not too long; he learns that she's asking what it is and what hurts._

_"My head." He says, he hopes those weren't tears falling from his eyes. Holmes men don't cry._

_"Laissez-nous vous sortir du placard, Sherlock." Nanny says, placing her hands to under his arms._

_Sherlock doesn't protest, his head hurts too much for him to protest. His stomach roils as she moves him, from his curled up position against the wall, to his head resting against her shoulder and her holding his trembling body as she slowly stands up. He wants to gag because of the movement. He hopes he doesn't, he doesn't like doing that, and he isn't too sure he has anything to throw up._

_Nanny groans softly, "Vous êtes lourd, Sherlock." She murmurs._

_The light from the outside hits Sherlock's eyes and he closes them tighter than before and buries his head into Nanny's shoulder, a small whimper of pain passes his lips as he does so. He raises a hand to cover his eyes and a muffled sob escapes his mouth. _Big boys don't cry. What eight year old boy cries over a silly headache? _He tells himself. It doesn't stop him though. The tears stream down faster as Nanny carries him out of the closet and into the bright hallway. The light's too bright; it's stabbing his eyes and making his head worse. He wants it to stop! He can feel Nanny's hand stroking his hair as she slowly carries him down the stairs. The hand calms him slightly, reminding him of the other times Nanny has helped him, Nanny stopped the pain then, she can stop it now._

_"Make it stop, Nanny, please." He pleads, his own voice hurting him even more. He isn't even sure if he's talking French or English anymore._

_"It will stop soon, Sherlock." Nanny whispers in English, "Did you take something?"_

_Sherlock does a simple nod, not wanting to move his head too much, "Didn't work."_

_"Will you take some more?" She asks softly._

_Sherlock shook his head, "Don't want to be sick, Nanny."_

_The hand moves from his hair to his face, Nanny's thumb is gently wiping the tears from his face. They've stopped now, and Sherlock moves the hand from his eyes and grips hers like a lifeline. The light is brighter here; he can feel it through his closed eyelids. It's driving needles into his eyes so he buries them into Nanny's neck to get rid of the offending light, he moans again and trembles harder. His other hand is gripping Nanny's jumper. He wants moan and cry and scream. But big boys don't do that, neither do Holmes men. He knows he's doing one of them, he isn't sure which one, all he knows is that his head is splitting open and Nanny's rocking him back and forth. He doesn't remember them moving to sit down, but with the pain in his head anything can happen and he wouldn't be aware of it._

_He's sobbing into Nanny's chest, it's better than screaming, but it still hurts all the same. Each sob that tears through his throat and reaches his ears sounds like gunfire, but he can't stop it, he's in too much pain to stop. He's gripping Nanny's hand hard now, harder than before, he thinks for a moment that he might be hurting her, but that thought gets pushed away as the pain increases slightly, his stomach flips and trembling grows stronger. He's feeling cold now, but it's May and it's really hot today. Is he sick? Is that why his head hurts so much? Is he getting that sickness Mummy normally has? But Mummy doesn't get these headaches, Mummy regularly gets flu. That's what Mycroft told him, that's why Mummy has to regularly take the pills._

_Nanny's hand is back in his hair, she's stroking his hair softly, it's calming him slightly, his crying not so strong. Nanny being the one thing reminding him that it will get better, just like all those other times he's been in pain or scared. She's still rocking him, back and forth slowly, rhythmically; her voice is soft as she tries to shush him. She always sings to him when he's hurt or scared, it calms him most, but he knows she can't do that. Not without making him feel worse._

_"Go to sleep, my little Sherlock." She whispers softly in English._

_She must know he can't focus properly if she's talking English._

_"Can't, Nanny, hurts too much." He replies through his sobs._

_"You can try, Sherlock." _

_Sherlock nods once and forces himself to calm down. He needs to ignore the pain if he's going to sleep._

_"Stay, Nanny." He says without realising._

_His Nanny nods and Sherlock's sobs slowly diminish. The pain is still there, he's trying his best to ignore it though, he's waiting for sleep to come to him. It's taking a while, and he's finally stopped crying, Nanny is still stroking his hair and rocking him, soon it is all he can focus on. That gentle rocking, back and forth, slowly, rhythmically. That soft hand gently running through his hair, stroking his curls, easing some of the pain. Slowly, too slowly for his own liking, he relaxes into Nanny, he feels the trembling slowing, the pain easing away, and he goes to sleep. Curled up and resting against his Nanny like the little baby boy he once was._

_When he wakes, his Nanny isn't here. He's alone on the chair, a green blanket lying on him. He becomes aware that his head doesn't hurt so much anymore, it still hurts, but it's not so much and the afternoon sun still hurts his eyes but not as much. It feels more like one of those headaches where you want to take something to stop it, but it doesn't hurt enough to take one._

_He hears a voice. Sherlock listens out for it; his fingers gently start rubbing his forehead in an attempt to calm this headache down._

_"He needs to see a…" There's a pause, as if the person was trying to think of the correct word. "Doctor!" He hears his Nanny finally shout in English._

_If Nanny's talking in English, then that must mean Father is home. Father never did bother learning French when he hired Nanny, saying that she should and could learn English if she wishes to talk to him. Mummy learnt French though, knowing someone would need to communicate with Nanny when required to._

_"It was one headache!" He hears Father shout._

_"He is huit ans, no. He is eight years old." Nanny quickly corrects herself, "He should not have a headache that intense."_

_Sherlock can tell she's thinking hard about her words. It's so easy for her to slip into her mother tongue, even more so when she's angry. He wishes they would stop fighting. It isn't his fault his head hurt so much, but he shouldn't have been such a baby about it. He should have just stayed in the closet. Nanny was only trying to help him._

_"You need to learn your place! You are their Nanny. A babysitter who can easily be replaced!" His Father shouts._

_A moment of fear runs through Sherlock he doesn't want Nanny to leave. He likes her; he doesn't want her to leave. He won't like the others. He doesn't hear Nanny's response but he soon sees her. She looks angry and upset, and he hopes Father doesn't replace her. When she sees him, her expression softens and she comes over._

_"Comment te sens-tu, Sherlock?" She asks softly._

_"Je vais mieux, Nanny." He replies. He is okay, his head doesn't hurt so much and he doesn't quite feel like being sick. He's fine._

_Nanny nods and runs a hand gently through his hair._

* * *

When Sherlock's awake later that day around ten forty-two pm, he pushes that memory, back into his Mind Palace. He frowns, he's not too sure he knows what brought that memory back, he hasn't thought about Nan – Violet in a while. Why was he thinking of her now? It must have something to do with the fever; a fever always brings unwanted memories back for him. He hates every minute of it when that happens. Almost every minute. As Sherlock coughs heavily into his pillow, he tries not to think of the time he was thirteen and sent Nanny (because she will always be Nanny to him, despite what he used to think.) into a state of panic that required a two day hospital stay. That feeling of guilt is creeping up on him as John helps him sit up, weighing down on his chest as he feels John rub at his back, whispering into his ear, telling him to calm down and to try to breathe.

He didn't mean to scare Nanny so much, but it just hurt so much. He didn't mean to make so much noise, it just happened. It all just happened. Even the seizure. It just happened quickly. So quickly that he wasn't ready for it. So quickly that nobody was ready for it. Not Mycroft, Nanny or even the school nurse.

His coughing has stopped now, so it gives him the chance to talk. "Je suis désolé, Nanny." He hears himself say. His throat hurts and his voice sounds hoarse, but that doesn't stop him from talking. "I'm sorry, Nanny." He repeats in English. He doesn't understand why he's saying it, he knows Nanny isn't here, he knows that he's with John at Baker Street, he knows he's not that frightened little thirteen year old apologising to Nanny for scaring her so much. Yet, he still says it. He's briefly aware of John talking.

"It's okay, Sherlock. Go back to sleep, I'll be here if you need me."

Sherlock nods and moves himself to lie back down. He pushes those thoughts away, he doesn't want to dream of Nanny again, but he does so anyway.

* * *

AN: This is Chapter 7, and I know some of you might be getting bored, as it's all Sherlock with a migraine, mostly the same thing happening in each chapter. I'm going to try mixing it up somehow but I'm not too sure I know how. My mind is full of fluff right now, each character comforting him in some way. I'm going to try to get cases involved and add some hurt to the other characters so it's not just Sherlock. But it will still remain a Sherlock with migraines fic.

I did some research and it says migraines can start at any age and that they can cause seizures, more so from a young age if it runs in the family. I needed Sherlock young enough so he could be carried, but I fear I made him a tad bit too young. I also fear I put too much emphasis on the relationship with Sherlock and his Nanny, but I've learnt a lot about Bowlby's attachment theory, and I've always pictured their parents as the business type that don't have time to be with their children, which is where the attachment theory steps in.

I hope you enjoyed it. Have a nice day :)

~Steffii


	8. Chapter 8

AN: The reason this took so long is because this chapter was originally supposed to be with Lestrade, but he refused to work with me and acted too much like John so I had to swap them. Sorry about the wait, Guys.

* * *

_How do we get into these situations?_ John asks himself.

John looks around the small room they were in. It's a small room, likely to be a basement. It certainly smells like one. It's roughly ten-foot wide and twelve-foot long and eight-foot high, there's some stairs behind him, leading up to a door with no handle and locked from the outside, a very small window that has no chance of being open or broken (not that they could fit through it anyway), there's nothing in the room except for two chairs sitting opposite each other in the middle of the room that they are currently handcuffed to, a light hangs between the two chairs, making it extremely bright for those sitting in the chairs, it's very hot and incredibly stuffy, and it smells horrible. He suspects there's mould in the room somewhere, there's a sewer farm nearby, and a strong acid kind of smell, there's the smell of damp, dust and something so horrible he just wants to throw up.

He can't though; it wouldn't do anyone any good. He needs to be strong, for Sherlock, he needs to be strong because he's the only one that can be. He needs to be strong for Sherlock because of many reasons, for one, he's a soldier, he's trained to remain calm in these situations and to protect the people, he's supposed to be strong and able to handle these situations, another reason is because it's his fault they are here anyway, and the final reason, is because Sherlock is vulnerable and completely at their captors mercy.

Guilt creeps up on him and he pushes it away. The original plan was to take him and hold him hostage, ask for a couple of thousand grand, ask some buddies to be released and for a one-way ticket out of the UK, and John Watson will be returned safe and not dead. But at the time their plan commenced, he had taken Sherlock out with him to meet some friends so that the Consulting Detective could get some fresh air, Sherlock had protested majorly, but given in. The fact of that Sherlock was with him, was only an added bonus for them and a truck load of guilt for him.

He wants to reach out to Sherlock, but the handcuffs keep him attached firmly to the chair. He can't even **talk** to Sherlock; their mouths were taped shut the moment they were taken. Sherlock needs him; Sherlock can't stay in this horrible room for much longer. Sherlock was beginning to feel the effects of a migraine moments before they were taken, that's why he had taken Sherlock out to get some fresh air, fresh air can lessen the strength of a migraine. But the rough handling, the sudden change of scenery, the bang on the head from the handle of a gun, the smell, the bright light between them, everything! Is only making Sherlock worse.

He looks at Sherlock, squinting to see him through the bright light that sits between them (apparently there's a little turn dial up near the door, so their captors can make the light dull or make the light bright, like now.) and takes a mental note of what's wrong with him. He squints to look at Sherlock. Sherlock has that impassive mask on – their captors could return at any moment, Sherlock won't show them that he's in pain. The handcuffs keep scraping against the arms of the chair as Sherlock trembles. There's a thin sheen of sweat on his face making his curls stick to his forehead, his eyes are open, but they're red and he can see the slight pain that Sherlock can't hide, he keeps closing his right eye momentarily before reopening it. _When was the last time Sherlock did that?_ It was when he had black spots in his vision. Sherlock can't see too well out of his right eye, hopefully it'll clear up soon, he remembers with a hard and supressed shudder the pain Sherlock was in when he lost most of the vision in his right eye, that's the indication of a bad migraine. The blood that was once trickling down the right side of his head has stopped, it's a good thing, Sherlock won't be dying from blood loss any time soon. He sees Sherlock swallow multiple times and near constantly. His heart skips a beat. Sherlock always vomits when he has a migraine, without fail, he will always vomit at least once when he has one, regardless of how much or how little he's eaten. He will always vomit. With the tape covering his mouth, he could possibly choke on his own vomit.

The doctor inside him must be trying to claw its way out, he's never put so much thought into recognising Sherlock's migraines. Then again, neither of them have been in this situation together before. They've done a lot of things together when Sherlock's had a migraine; they've been in a hostage situation together before, but never quite like this, never with a migraine. It must be why he put so much thought into recognising Sherlock's migraine signs, he normally looks at Sherlock, discovers the migraine, tries to get Sherlock to rest and then helps Sherlock through the pain using the ways he knows. They don't always work and some have proven to be more painful than helpful, but it's better than just standing around doing nothing. Or in this case, sitting handcuffed to a chair doing nothing.

He closes his eyes and breathes out slowly through his nose, his rising concern for Sherlock is only causing him to worry and panic. He needs to remain clam if they ever plan on escaping. Scotland Yard doesn't negotiate with terrorists and neither does Mycroft. As the moment they realised who Sherlock was they also sent a message to Mycroft, so if Scotland Yard doesn't help them, then Mycroft certainly would. Or so they believed. He's spent more than enough times in meetings with Mycroft to know that he certainly wouldn't leave his younger brother alone without help, no. He'll be sending someone soon, once he learns of where they are, and he desperately hopes that will be soon.

They haven't been left alone for long. He still has his watch on his wrist, but with the angle his wrists are handcuffed to the chair, it's hard to read. He can briefly make out where the hands are pointing, it's three twenty-five in the afternoon, they've been in here since two-thirty, and they were taken at what he thought to be one-fifty. The message was made at two-fifty; the Yard must have seen it by now. They must be formulating some kind of rescue. But how long will it take?

A muffled moan catches his attention and his eyes move from his watch to the person in the chair opposite him. He looks at Sherlock, he's now closed his eyes, his head is turned to the right, his face is pale and shining with sweat. He hears another moan; this time accompanied by a stray tear that made its way out of Sherlock's closed eyes. He looks away from Sherlock, feeling something gnawing at his chest, and looks down at his wrists. He pulls at the handcuffs holding him down, it's a futile attempt but he needs to do something that doesn't just involve sitting there.

* * *

He groans as he wakes. They've had an eventful few hours; it's certainly taking its toll on him now. His head hurts a lot, his ribs are protesting against each breath, and his stomach certainly doesn't feel right. He groans once more and blinks, trying to adjust his eyes to the bright light, which has only gotten brighter, between Sherlock and him. It makes his head feel worse than before. He tries to remember what happened. Sherlock forced himself to ignore the pain as his eyes had darted wildly around the room trying to find ways to escape. Their captors returned, stated that they wanted to "play" because they were "bored", which resulted in them both being used as a human punch bag when their captors got annoyed. Another video had been made, telling both Scotland Yard and the British Government that time is ticking, they need to hurry up if they want him and Sherlock returned alive. But something happened before he was hit around the head. But what?

He freezes in his seat as he remembers.

The light had been switched off, he remembers the relief he felt when the light finally stopped hurting his eyes and making his headache feel worse, the relief had soon vanished and became fury and hate towards their captors when one of them produced a torch and shone it into Sherlock's eyes. He had tried to struggle when that happened, resulting in the torch being hit across his head causing him to pass out.

He squints as he tries to look at Sherlock, he hopes the younger man isn't awake, but he knows how dangerous that can be if their captors were to return. Sherlock is awake, yes, he is certainly awake. Sherlock whose eyes are wide and dashing around everywhere, tears threatening to fall and stains from where previous ones had already fallen, there's sweat trickling down his face, it mixes in with the blood and tears, his curls are now plastered to his forehead, the trembling has grown stronger. His head remains in the same place the entire time his eyes are moving, looking everywhere but ahead, away from the bright light that hangs between them. He's still trying to think of a way to escape, he's still determined not to show his pain, though he must be in agony. He breathes in through his nose and notices there's a new smell. One look at Sherlock's clothes confirms it, sometime after he passed out, Sherlock vomited over himself.

"Sherlock." He hears himself say. His voice sounds croaky and his throat feels dry, he doesn't remember the tape being removed, he doesn't want to know why it was either.

Sherlock shows no indication of hearing him.

"Sherlock." He repeats, clearing his throat out after.

"John." Sherlock says finally acknowledging him. His voice sounds pained, even though he clearly tried to hide it. His eyes remain darting around the room.

"Close your eyes, Sherlock." He says, closing his own eyes as he does so. That light is much too bright.

"No." Sherlock protests quietly, not wanting his voice to cause him more pain.

"It's hurting you, Sherlock." He replies softly. He wonders briefly if Sherlock really is stubborn and stupid enough to cause himself more pain.

"I don't care."

He breathes out heavily, groaning slightly from the painful protest his ribs make. He suddenly feels really tired, it's a huge effort for him to open his eyes and look at Sherlock who is now blinking rapidly, tears sliding down slowly against his will, looking back at him.

"Showing pain is what caused them to shine the torch into my eyes." Sherlock says sternly, finishing with a sneer.

"But giving yourself more pain means you can't think." He replies just as stern.

"We can't escape anyway." Sherlock says dismissively. "We have to wait for someone to rescue is." He says distastefully.

"Until then, you should keep your eyes closed." He says trying to reason with him.

"No." Sherlock repeats.

He blinks heavily once more and the next thing he knows he's staring at Sherlock who has quite clearly given up in his attempt to hide the pain. Did he pass out? He hopes not, but it's likely he had. He feels weaker than he did before; more tired too, his muscles are beginning to cramp from being in the same position for so long. He looks down at his lap and blinks multiple times, he feels really dizzy and his stomach is telling him it knows how to somersault. He wishes it would stop. He wishes it would all just stop. He looks back up, the light isn't as bright anymore, he's not entirely sure he wants to know what happened during the time he was passed out. He tries to focus on Sherlock, but it's proven harder than he thought. He can see that Sherlock's head is now resting on his right shoulder, he can see the bruises and blood on the left side of his face, he can see just how hard Sherlock's trying to keep his eyes closed, he can see Sherlock's mouth moving rapidly and if he tries hard enough, he can he Sherlock's desperate pleas.

"Stopstopstop. Make i' stop, please. Oh, God, please make i' stop. Stopstopstop. Hurtshurtshurts. Stopstopstop."

He opens his mouth to talk, but he gets drained out by a voice coming from behind.

"And Sleepin' Beauty awakens!" The voice shouts.

A moan comes from Sherlock; he opens his eyes and lifts his head slightly.

John turns his head, trying to look at the man walking down the stairs behind him.

"Took ya long enough, Watson." He says, walking slowly towards the older man. "Your buddy, Sherlock 'ere, has been tryin' ta escape, as ya can see he hasn' succeeded. He only removed the handcuff on 'is left 'and, he was tryin' ta remove the handcuff on 'is right when I found 'im. Good ol' bang to the 'ead put him in his place."

A hand is in his hair; it pulls at his hair and tugs his head back. He breathes heavily through his nose, determined not to show any pain, ignoring how his ribs protest and stomach flips. John looks from the man pulling at his hair to Sherlock. He pushes down the feeling building up inside him as he notices the fresh blood on Sherlock's forehead, the tightness of the handcuffs on his wrists, and the way he is so clearly in pain with his eyes barely open.

"You've only been 'ere for twelve hours, Watson. And we still haven' had a response from your buddies down at Soc'land Yard." He whispers softly, "Do ya know wha' that means?"

He doesn't respond. He can feel adrenaline building up inside him, the pain being quickly forgotten about. Maybe, just maybe, he can break that man's nose when he steps in front of him. He's too impatient to wait, though; he can feel the man pull back, the hand in his hair removing itself. It's the perfect time for him to throw his head back and hit their captor.

There's a satisfying crunch as he does this, an even more satisfying cry of pain when it happens, but a moment of heartbreak when he hears Sherlock groan in agony. He tugs at the handcuffs holding him down, adrenaline running through him, they're going to get killed soon if they don't escape, they need to escape, but given their condition, it will be very difficult.

He pulls harder at the handcuffs, he needs to break them, he needs to manage something. If he twists them slightly, would they break? He certainly hopes so. As he twists them, he realises there's no sound from the person behind him, he hopes that means the man's unconscious. He pauses when he hears a snap of metal. His eyes widen and he looks down at the cuff on his left wrist, he face brightens when he notices the small break where the cuffs connect. He tugs at it harder, pulling his hand away and trying to pick at the one on his right when it breaks.

As he picks at the one of his right hand, he turns his head to look at the man behind him. He isn't there anymore. There's some blood drops from the broken nose, but the man is gone. He speeds up his attempt to break the cuff on his right hand trying not to panic, looking towards Sherlock, noticing the other man trying to do this himself, not succeeding as well as him. Once the handcuff breaks off, he rushes towards Sherlock, his whole body protests at the movement, but he ignores it, he needs to help Sherlock.

A series of bangs are heard from upstairs, and they quicken their attempt to remove the handcuffs. It takes far too long, but they finally manage to remove the handcuffs, John slings Sherlock's arm around his shoulders and wastes no time in helping Sherlock stand. He forces himself to ignore the pained gasp, slight gagging and whimpers as they stand, choosing to think more about how they're going to make it out. John helps Sherlock towards the stairs on shaky legs; he tries hard not to notice Sherlock's pained breaths and the small moans, as they make their escape.

The banging has finally stopped, John's certain he doesn't want to know what started and stopped it. They enter a hallway, he's starting to feel nauseous now, dizziness is beginning to catch up on him as he looks around. There's a door on the far left and another door on the right. John takes the left, hoping that it's the way out, his adrenalin is starting to run low, the aches and pains catching up with him and he hears himself moan. They're going slower now, it's too much effort for John to push himself, his head's beginning to pound, the dizziness and nausea growing worse, it all starts to overwhelm him. He hears Sherlock's pained gasps in his ear, it usually helps him push himself to escape, but this time, it only causes him to fall.

Someone cries out in pain as they hit the ground, he doesn't know who it is that cried out, he believes it may have been him, but it could have been Sherlock, or both. John's eyes are barely open and he can feel Sherlock's hands on his chest, they're shaking him, trying to get him up.

"Come on, John. No' dyin' now, up you get. Come on, John. Upupup. Don' make me beg, John. Upupup." Sherlock says.

It's too hard for John to open his eyes; he doesn't have the energy anymore. He tries to apologise to Sherlock but suddenly there's a bang, a cry of pain, and something heavy lands on his chest which causes him to cry out as it hurts his ribs. He finds it in him to open his eyes a crack; he can see Sherlock's dark curls on him. There are the sounds of heavy footsteps, another bang, and John falls into the darkness.

* * *

It's bright when he wakes, it makes his eyes sting and he suddenly becomes aware of his aching head. He turns his head to the side and raises a hand to cover his eyes as he opens them slowly. The familiar beep is heard and he knows where he is.

"John." He hears a voice say.

John breathes heavily through his nose as he looks at the person calling his name. He can't feel the pain in his ribs, but he still feels nauseous.

"Greg." He says, his voice is still croaky and his throat is still dry. "Where's Sherlock?" He tries to ask, hating the way he's slurring his words.

"Sherlock's fine, he's only in the next room." Lestrade replies. "How are you feeling, mate?"

John groans softly, "Bad." He mumbles.

Lestrade nods and suddenly there's a cup in front of him, he drinks from it, relishing in the way the cool water eases his throat and stops the feeling of dryness. It's pulled away from him a moment later and Lestrade is then telling him of the injuries he's sustained – cracked ribs, minor concussion, bad bruising, but nothing serious. He's then told that Sherlock is in the same condition. He wants to see Sherlock, but he doesn't think he has enough energy and Lestrade is adamant that he stay in bed.

"It was Mycroft's men who found you two." Lestrade says, "We came in a few minutes later, but it was Mycroft's men that found you two first."

John nods, he had suspected that. The Yard are never so loud when they try to sneak into a building, it must have been Mycroft that had given him the private room.

"Sorry, John," Lestrade apologises looking down at his watch, "I need to go back to work. Feel better soon."

John waits for Lestrade to leave before he starts to disconnect the machines. He's spent more than enough time in hospital beds to know how to escape without anyone realising. He stands on trembling legs, a hand holding onto the IV stand for support, closes his eyes and breathes deeply as he waits for the dizziness to pass. He walks slowly out of his room, learning that his room is at the end of the corridor and the next room is on the right. He goes towards Sherlock's room, opening the door slowly as he enters. Sherlock's room his far dimmer than his own, which is likely to be Mycroft's doing, even the beep of the heart monitor isn't as loud. John walks forward, carefully closing the door behind him, he frowns when he notices what the heart monitor is saying. Sherlock's heartbeat is fast right now. John stops beside Sherlock's bed, the only part visible of the younger man is the dark curls on top of his head, they're barely visible under the hospital blanket. John smirks slightly and pulls the blanket back.

"Go 'way." Comes the muffled response.

John continues pulling the blanket back further.

"Piss off." This response is quickly followed by three fingers trying to tug the blanket back.

"You're not going to do yourself any good being under there." John replies pulling the blanket off until he's able to see Sherlock's face.

"Don' care." Sherlock grumbles, not opening his eyes or making any attempt to look at him.

John sits down on the side of the bed. "Head still hurting you?"

"Obviously." Sherlock replies a hand moving from under the blanket to rest at the side of his forehead.

John frowns slightly, "Can't you ask for something to stop it?"

"Ex-addic', John. They won' give me anythin' stronger."

"I thought hiding under pillows was more your thing."

"Nurses won' le' me." Sherlock grumbles, he goes to pull at the blanket once more but John stops him.

"And when did you start listening to nurses?" John asks, watching the way Sherlock's hand trembles as it clings to the blanket.

"Since their horrible voices make me worse." This is then followed by a groan of pain.

John leans forward, placing a hand on top of Sherlock's hair. "Try to sleep, Sherlock." He murmurs.

"Would if I could." Sherlock replies, shifting his head slightly to move closer to John's hand, but wincing as the movement causes him more pain. "Hurts too much."

John starts to gently stroke Sherlock's curls, threading his fingers through the mess. "This is why you need to eat and sleep properly."

He hears Sherlock breathe a soft sigh, his tense body relaxing slightly. "Is no'." He protests.

"It is." John replies, "Migraines can sometime be caused by poor eating and lack of sleep, you wouldn't be getting so many if you ate and slept like a normal person."

"Stop lecturin' me." Sherlock moans.

"Not until you start taking care of yourself." John replies.

John sees Sherlock lean a little more into the touch as he continues to stroke Sherlock's curls. It only takes a few minutes, Sherlock's trembling starts to slow, the whimpers of pain begin to stop, and Sherlock begins to relax and is soon sleeping. John stays there for a moment before standing slowly and making his exit. Trying his best not to think about how hellish Sherlock is going to be when he wakes.

* * *

AN: One question, who do you want to see in the next chapter? We've had one with Mrs. Hudson, one with Mycroft, one with Moriarty, two with Lestrade, one with Violet, and three with John. Who do you want to see in the next chapter? Or do you just want Sherlock on his own?

I realise I'm pushing Sherlock's character and making him out of character, but when a migraine hurts just enough, you really do just become a blubbering mess and beg anyone to make it stop.

I have no idea how this chapter became so long.

I hope you enjoyed it. Have a nice day :)

~Steffii


	9. Chapter 9

AN: Credit goes to **Catie501** for this chapter. They suggested that seeing Sherlock on his own would be interested, then my brain nearly exploded with this chapter.

Thanks for all your suggestions! I really appreciate it! I've received a request Donovan, Anderson, Lestrade, and Sherlock with a protective!Mycroft (suggested by **Blueskies23**. Protective!Mycroft by **Tempus Rose**. These will likely become two chapters). Another chapter with Lestrade (suggested by **Catie501**). A chapter with Sherlock, John and Lestrade (suggested by **Catie501**). Mrs. Hudson's first time seeing Sherlock's migraine (suggested by **Nichole Mark**). And a Molly chapter (suggested by **Nichole Mark**). These will be the next bunch of chapters I shall be working on. Do remember, I am open to suggestions, if you want to see Sherlock in a certain situation with a certain character, then simply tell me! I'll start writing it.

**Tempus Rose**, thank you for your advice about the tea! I'm not really one for tea, but I'll be sure to give it a try next time. Thank you!

* * *

He throws the glass at the wall as he paces and watches as the top hits just below the mantelpiece, the glass shatters, landing on the mantelpiece, the floor, he and John's chairs. He groans when the sound reaches his ears but he doesn't care, the remains of the glass can prove to be a distraction. He needs a distraction. He craves for one. Anything to keep his mind busy and to stop focusing on the pain! It's all that's on his mind. Pain, pain, pain! He wishes it would just stop!

He stops pacing and stares down at the glass, the base sits on the floor beside the chimney place, bigger pieces surround it, thousands of tiny pieces lay on the floor, the chairs, some on the mantelpiece, everywhere. Sherlock looks down at John's chair, a long piece of glass sits by the cushion and lots of tiny pieces surround it, he'll need to clean it before John returns.

Sherlock returns to his quick pacing, he hates the way he's walking – steps are unsteady, he's stumbling frequently, his legs are clearly trembling. It all reminds him of the betrayal of his transport. It shows him how easy and obvious it is for his transport to give in except he refuses to stop.

John, John, where is John? Medical conference, he won't return until early Monday morning. Mrs. Hudson is visiting her sister and won't return for a week. Lestrade has the weekend off, but is visiting his brother somewhere in Oxford. Mycroft... No, he's not asking Mycroft for help, no. He's out of the country anyway, so Sherlock couldn't even if he wanted to.

Sherlock groans loudly. His head won't stop, it just won't stop hurting! He desperately wants to play his violin but the sound will only make him worse, he doesn't want to suffer through it. He desperately wants to go outside but the bright sunlight will only make his head want to explode. Not that, it isn't feeling like that now. He wants to do something, anything. He will do anything to stop him from focusing on the truly agonising pain radiating from his head.

His hands are trembling hard as he wraps his arms around his shivering form. He's cold; he's cold, so very, very cold, though he's not going to put extra clothing on over his shirt because he'll likely to be so very hot soon. His stomach churns horribly and he falters in his pacing, he feels like vomiting, he doesn't want to vomit, he's done that three times already (the bathroom smells disgusting as does his bedroom), he'll only dry heave and produce bile. He soon returns to his pacing, wiping the sweat off his forehead with his shirt sleeve as he does so. Surprisingly enough, he isn't dizzy, that had passed one hour and sixteen minutes ago, but his right eye is starting to feel a strange sensation and he estimates it will be ten minutes before he loses his vision.

Sherlock groans loudly once more, there's nobody else here, he can be as loud and vocal as he wants. Too bad he doesn't want to hear himself. Why would he want to hear himself sound so pathetic? So weak, so vulnerable, so human. It's all just a reminder that he's as human as the next person, and he hates it.

Sherlock closes his eyes, he feels something prick at the bottom of his right foot, it grows stronger with each step he takes. The carpet feels different as he walks, he's likely to be bleeding but he can't feel the pain. He's stepped on glass before and felt it, it usually hurts, now though, he can't feel it, the pain in his head is too strong for him to feel the pain that's supposed to be in his foot. He opens his eyes to go and look, not before noticing that he can't see anything from his right eye, as if an eye patch has been placed upon it. There's nothing but blackness. That's different; he normally has back spots first. He looks down at the floor, turning his head so that he can see it from his only good eye, sure enough, the heel of his right foot is bleeding, not much, but it's leaving blooded marks on the carpet. John and Mrs. Hudson won't be pleased.

Sherlock unfolds his arms and starts to undo the buttons of his shirt, it's clumsy and it takes too long. He's hot now, so very, very hot. He feels something cool hit his chest, he knows it's his own tears, he's been crying for a while now, he's surprised they're still falling, he can't be that hydrated. Considering the amount sweat, vomit, and tears that have all come from him, he can't be that hydrated. He knows what John would tell him, he should try to drink some water, John would like it if he tries, he doesn't want to, he'll only vomit; he can't hold the water down. He's vaguely aware that he's stepping in more glass; he's treading more blooded footprints on the carpet, except he can't feel the pain! He wants to feel the pain. He needs to feel the pain. If it distracts him from the pain in his head then he will welcome it with his arms open.

Sherlock sits down on the floor, well, more accurately, he falls down, and he's still sitting on the carpet. He wraps his arms around his legs and brings them towards his chest, he can feel the sweat on his chest rub against his trousers, he squirms slightly at the feeling. He buries his head into his legs, hoping that just this once, his mind will work with him and not heighten his other senses. It doesn't. The lack of sight only makes sounds louder. He can hear the cars passing, someone's child screaming, two men shouting at each other, someone's obscenely loud music, car horns, the television belonging to next door (one of the married ones are hard of hearing, Sherlock never did bother to remember which one.). He can tell by the traffic that it's rush hour, it's somewhere between five and six in the afternoon, he's had this migraine for what feels like so long, it started at twelve twenty-two, it's only been roughly five hours. He just wants it to stop!

He's vaguely aware that he's rocking back and forth, it's certainly something he hasn't done in a while, but he's not going to stop the motion. He lets out a cry of anguish into his legs because ithurtsithurtsithurts, it just won't stop. The cry hits his ears and his head creates a stronger wave of pain, but he doesn't care, not anymore. He can focus on how deep his voice sounds, he can focus on how pained it sounds, he can focus on how pathetic he sounds. Sherlock clenches his hands into fists, fingernails digging in, barely registering the sting as they dig into his skin, and releases another cry. He wants to scream, every second is just painpainpain, but he doesn't want anyone to hear how pathetic and weak he sounds, nor does he want to hear himself.

His whole form is trembling; suddenly he's cold again, so very cold. His fingernails are digging in much harder now, he needs to cut them soon, they're far too long, and any more pressure on the middle one and it's going to break off itself. There's a stinging sensation coming from the nail bed of his middle finger, except it isn't enough, he can still feel his head every second.

Sherlock lets go of his legs and flings himself back onto the floor, the quick movement has him gagging though nothing comes up. He's lying on the floor now, staring up at the ceiling, only able to see it properly with one eye. Tears and sweat now slide down the side of his face, mixing in with his sweaty hair while others hit the floor, making the carpet wetter than it was before and mixing in with the blood from his feet. His breathing is laboured and if he doesn't calm down he's going to hyperventilate. He grinds his teeth together, forcing himself to calm down, it takes a while and soon his breathing starts to slow, but then his head sends out a stronger wave of pain and within quick succession his eyes snap shut tightly, his fingernails are digging in harder, and his breathing fastens.

For a moment, Sherlock is glad nobody is here to witness this. To witness how pathetic he is being, to see that he can't handle a simple little headache. He knows that they wouldn't think that, he knows that if John or Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson were here that they would be in pain themselves, they would hate seeing him in so much pain and they would be wishing that they could do anything to stop it. John would likely be in doctor mode, he would be using his knowledge to try and calm the migraine down, using those home-made ideas or going out of his way to get some form of medication that will likely need to have been prescribed to a person, so he'd call Sarah and ask her for a favour and state that he will do anything she wants him to, she would be a little hesitant but agree, the medication would work, but only for so long (he's only done that twice, and he wishes John were here to do it again.). Lestrade would likely be hanging around feeling awkward, torn between helping Sherlock himself or interrupting John at work, date, something. Lestrade would talk quietly, crack a few jokes, place something on Sherlock's forehead before settling down beside him and running strong yet gentle fingers through Sherlock's curls, they always helped to soothe and relax him, calm him down slightly and push the pain down to manageable levels. Lestrade would remain there with him until something drags him away or Sherlock's fallen asleep. Mrs. Hudson would likely have put him to bed or settled him down on the couch, both places his head would be in her lap (occasionally on her chest, where she will then rock him back and forth slightly), she would be staring down at him and have her soft and gentle fingers stroking his hair, she would be torn between remaining silent and singing to him (it always helped her little sister, except she wasn't so sound sensitive.). After a while she would settle on one, and she would remain there with his head in her lap until something drags her away or he's fallen asleep.

A moan escapes Sherlock and his trembling form shudders harder, he doesn't want to be on his own for any longer. He wants the people he cares about to be with him, he wants them to help him through the pain, as they have done so many times before, they make the pain more manageable. He wants John, John's a doctor, John can heal him, help him feel better, help calm him down, reassure him, and tell him that the pain won't kill him and will be gone soon. He wants Lestrade, he wants to feel Lestrade's finger stroking through his curls, telling him that it's okay, it will get better soon, everything gets better soon, and he wants Lestrade to promise him a case once the pain has passed. He wants Mrs. Hudson, he wants to feel her rocking him like Nanny did or softly stroking his curls, he wants to hear Mrs. Hudson's soft reassuring him, telling him that the pain will soon pass, he wants to hear her voice calming him down, and that once this has passed she will make him those cakes he likes most. He wants Mycroft, he wants his older brother to be here and make the pain go, like his older brother has done so many times before, like older brothers are supposed to. He wants Nanny, he wants her to hold him against her chest, to rock him back and forth, and to sing to him softly in French, to whisper in his ear, and do everything she once did until he left for University.

A cry of anguish escaped Sherlock's mouth and he moves his hands to pull at his hair. His hands slide through his hair, he's aware that his hands are making his hair feel wet. He doesn't remember making his hands bleed, it must have been from his fingernails, he didn't feel the pain to tell him he'd cut into his hands. He pulls at his hair, he can feel a stinging sensation at his roots but it still isn't enough to distract him from the pain in his head. He hates it. He hates what he's being. He wants to go back to his confident, arrogant, and strong self. He doesn't want to be this weak, vulnerable, pathetic being that relies on other people to make him feel better. He hates his transport for going turning against him and making every little thing hurt. He wants it all to stop. Stopstopstop. He wants to sleep but it hurts too much, he wants to pass out from pain but his body simply won't let him, making him aware that the pain is still there, every second that passes by.

He knows it won't be stopping soon, this is the worst one he's had since he was eighteen and his asinine roommate decided to have a party, and the bad ones always last for up to forty-two hours. At first, it appeared relatively minor, likely needing only a lie down in bed for several hours, a small nap, and then next day he'll be irritable and experience no pain, until an experiment set the fire alarm off. It took him nearly ten minutes to rid the flat of all the smoke and turn the alarm off, now his migraine feels unbearable.

Sherlock rolls onto his side and brings his legs to his chest, the movement has him coughing and gagging, his throat burns as the bile rises. The coughing makes his head feel worse and he is so close to finally passing out, but he can't because there's a risk of choking on his own bile. It throws itself out of his mouth, landing on the floor beside him; it smells horrible except Sherlock isn't going to move, not anymore. Sherlock bites down on his lip and remain pulling at his hair. Painpainpain, why won't it stop? He only wants it to stop. Hurtshurtshurts. More moans and whimpers escape his throat, he soon stops biting down on his lip and lets them happen, they've been happening for the past five hours, there isn't much point in stopping them now. It's not like anyone's going to hear him.

He can hear sirens, police and ambulance sirens. They're growing louder and oh, God, the pain is growing with it. He cries out in pain multiple times (he won't ever admit to screaming, despite how much he wants to do it), as the sirens grow louder and the pain grows stronger to the point where Sherlock would much rather be dead than alive. At least then he won't be in pain. His hands move from his hair to his ears trying to block out the sounds, another cry escapes him and as the sirens pass, so does he. The darkness, the darkness that he has been waiting for since the pain started to grow unbearable has finally arrived, and Sherlock falls towards it. Relief flowing through him as the pain starts to dull, the tension starts to leave him and he can finally relax.

He wakes with a groan, the pain is still there, it still hurts so much. Sherlock opens his eyes slowly, it's pitch black in the flat, and for a moment he thinks he's lost vision in both his eyes until he moves his hand in front of him. Sherlock isn't too sure if moving is a good option, he still feels nauseous and now the dizziness has returned, but lying on the curled up on the hard floor is no longer comfortable. Not that it was before; it's just gotten worse since he passed out. He lifts his head slowly, not wanting to cause it anymore pain, and looks around. The couch doesn't look too far away, it's closer than the bedroom, and he has no intention of walking, not with the glass still in his feet. Sherlock uses his forearms to drag himself to the couch, the movement only reminding himself how pathetic he is being and making him hate his transport even more. Once he makes it to the couch, he buries his face into the cushions, they muffle the sounds of the moans, whimpers, and groans that soon escape his mouth as he waits for sleep to come once more and for the pain to finally stop!

* * *

Sherlock sits by the table in the kitchen, scribbling notes into a small notebook. His co-ordination is still clumsy, his handwriting not at its best but it's still readable so it'll do for now. He had been able to remove all the glass from the floor, chairs, and mantelpiece, the blood will take a while longer though, he's not sure he's up to smelling the horrible detergent that removes blood stains from the carpet quite yet. He was also able to remove all glass from his feet, it was clumsy as his hands were still trembling, and next time he'll wait for John to return, but he'd managed to remove all bits of glass and then bandage his feet up. The cuts were deep; fortunately, they weren't deep enough to require stitches. Sherlock had also been able to remove the bile from the carpet, remove the vomit from his bedroom and the bathroom, though he has no intention of going into either of them as they still smell horrendous.

Sherlock raises a hand to rub at the side of his head; his head still hurts though it is only a headache. He always gets one once the migraine has gone. He can hear John's heavy footsteps making their way up the stairs. Sherlock continues rubbing at the side of his head with a slight grimace as he waits for John to return and make a comment about the blood on the carpet. He doesn't wait long.

"Sherlock, why is there blood on the carpet?" John asks, he sounds tired and annoyed. He certainly won't put up with Sherlock's behaviour for long tonight.

"There was a slight mishap with a criminal." Sherlock lies removing the hand from the side of his head.

"But you haven't had any cases." John replies entering the kitchen.

Sherlock doesn't look up from the notes he's writing, "You haven't been here since Friday, John. I do have private cases."

John sighs, "Fine, okay, whatever. Just clean it up before Mrs. Hudson returns."

Sherlock nods.

"Have you eaten?" John asks taking his mug out from the cupboard.

"Of course." Sherlock says nodding down to the plate beside him.

"Just checking."

Sherlock feels John's eyes on him and shifts uncomfortably. "What do you want, John?" Sherlock asks irritably, looking up from his notes.

"Are you sure you're okay?" John asks, his doctor voice coming out.

Sherlock groans, "I'm fine, John."

"Are you certain?" John asks giving Sherlock a look that says he doesn't quite believe him.

"Completely certain." Sherlock replies confidently.

John nods and turns the kettle on. "It's just, before I entered the flat, Charlie told me that he heard the sounds of glass smashing and the sounds of someone crying out in pain, but when he knocked on the door to see if everyone was alright, there was no answer."

Sherlock looks back down at his notes, "As I said, John, it was a slight mishap with a criminal."

John pauses for a while before responding, "I know you're lying to me, Sherlock. You're still in pain right now, I can see it."

Sherlock shifts in his seat and doesn't respond.

"Why didn't you tell me?" John asks, coming over to Sherlock and placing a hand on his shoulder.

"You wouldn't have been able to do anything and I can handle it myself." Sherlock says trying to defend himself.

"So throwing glass at the wall and making yourself bleed is you being able to handle it?" John replies ludicrously.

Sherlock shrugs John's hand off his shoulder, "I'm fine now, John."

John keeps his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Just tell me next time. I might be able to help."

Sherlock nods and returns to his notes.

* * *

AN: Yes, I do realise that I'm pushing Sherlock's character again, but when you're in so much pain, you will do **anything** to stop it, and that's what I tried to portray through Sherlock. The other thing is that, when you're on your own, you don't have anyone to pull an act for; anyone to stay strong for, those shields have dropped and you just show your pain. This is also based on the migraine I had last week, and the pain felt like it was more than enough to kill me.

Again, if you want to see Sherlock in a certain situation with a certain character then tell me. I'll start writing it.

I hope you enjoyed this, have a nice day :)

~Steffii


	10. Chapter 10

AN: Credit for the characters goes to **Catie501** for this chapter. Thank you!

* * *

Sherlock hates taking the tube, if anything; he always tries his best to avoid it. There are always too many people, too many voices, too many smells, too many things to observe, it all jumps out at him. He never takes the tube if he can. He prefers taking a cab, so much more secluded, the only people in a cab in himself and the driver, occasionally John. He would much rather be taking a cab right now, but John insisted on taking the tube, it's cheaper than a cab and they really do need to stop wasting their money on cabs.

They are currently one hour and thirty-six minutes away from Baker Street by foot because of a case a client had given him, which is why John insisted on taking the tube.

_"No, Sherlock! I am not wasting another bloody fifty pounds on a cab home! We need to stop wasting our money; the tube is much cheaper so we are taking it!" Before Sherlock could protest, John had grabbed the sleeve of his coat and dragged him to getting the train._

Sherlock sits on the seat, looking around at the people surrounding him, they had managed to catch it during rush hour, one of the worst times possible, as if it isn't bad enough taking the tube, they had to take it during rush hour! Sherlock looks around, trains are impossibly noisy and overly bright, his eyes are already beginning to hurt and the sounds are ringing in his ears. The man sitting next to him is drunk, he's going to pass out at any moment, his husband walked out on him and he lost a job that morning, of course the appropriate response is to get drunk! Everything all gets better through drinking. Sherlock scowls to himself and moves onto the next person, University student returning home during half-term, spends quite a bit of time awake at night instead of sleeping, judging by the book in his hand it's because of the work he needs to do, only has one younger sibling, parents divorced a while ago, and he has no intention of staying on the course for much longer.

Sherlock breathes an annoyed sigh and looks down at his watch; they still have another forty-three minutes on this godforsaken thing. As he lowers his hand back down, he notices the tremble in it; he needs to get off this train! Now! Except the next stop is another five minutes away and there isn't much chance of John listening to him.

"It's okay, Honey, I'll leave... leave my husband for sure tonight." Sherlock hears some woman falter.

It's quite obvious to him they have no intention of leaving their husband for their new boyfriend; he's briefly reminded of Anderson and Lestrade.

"It's okay, Sweetheart, if you have work to do..." Sherlock hears some other woman say.

She doesn't quite believe that her partner has work tonight; more believes him to be spending the night down at the pub. Sherlock looks around and immediately regrets it; everything is just jumping out at him! The voices are growing louder, the lights are growing brighter even though that is preposterous, his head is starting to hurt. That woman steals extra money from cash register every night after work, that man is anxious about recently becoming a father, that young boy is failing a class and is unsure of how to tell his parents, that woman is six weeks pregnant but is unsure on whether or not she wants to keep it, that one is having an affair with three other people, that one works at a farm, that one works as a bank manager, that one is a doctor, that one suspect they're about to get laid off work, that one is in a rush to get home to their children.

"I'll be home soon, Nigel."

"I'm on the train; I'll be there in ten minutes, Kerri."

"No, I'm not lying to you."

"I love you, not her."

"Don't drive your mum up the wall, Sammie."

Then there are the smells. One likes horseback riding, they have three dogs, they have two cats, one has a newborn baby, one works in an office, that man smells strongly of cologne, that girl has strongly overdone her perfume, that one is wearing three different kinds of Lynx, she's wearing four different kinds of Charlie and two different perfumes, that one was vomited on before entering the train. Stop it, stop it, stop it!

Everything is jumping out at him, all the observations, all the deductions, everything! And look, John has another date tomorrow. Let's hope he doesn't bring her home again, last time was a disaster and it wasn't necessarily his fault! It was more John's than his own. He had nodded at her, given her a fake grin and then returned to his violin, it wasn't his fault John forced him to have an actual conversation with her. It's not like John will be staying when he finds the right person, he'll move out and abandon his friend, they all do!

His stomach churns horribly; he can't wait to get off this train. Sherlock closes his eyes and leans his head back; hopefully his mind won't heighten his hearing. The pounding in his head starts to grow, everything is still jumping out at him, through the images in his mind instead. He just wants it all to stop. The train is starting to slow; hopefully they will lose a bunch of passengers and not gain more. Sherlock inhales sharply at the pain, it clearly has no intention of stopping, but it's still another forty-two minutes away from the closest stop to Baker Street. He hears the mad rush of footsteps as people get on and off the train, the sudden flurry of voices, each of them sounding like the bang of a gun in his mind and he doesn't quite stop his groan. Once the train starts moving again, he opens his eyes, the sting of train lights is not unexpected, but the sudden sharp pain of agony is and he bites back a gasp. The drunk man is still sat beside him but he isn't conscious, the carriage they're in appears to have gained new people, lost others, and doesn't contain as many as before but it certainly is louder. He looks towards John who is happily talking to some woman beside him.

"John," He says, "can we get off at the next stop?"

John doesn't respond, so Sherlock tries again.

"John, we are getting off at the next stop!" Sherlock demands.

John looks towards him, "Sherlock, we've still got another forty minutes; we are not getting off at the next stop."

"Yes we are." Sherlock replies, "We can get a cab home."

"No, Sherlock, we are not!" John replies angrily, "We have wasted too much money taking cabs over London and need to start saving!"

The train jolts side to side and Sherlock has to resist the urge to vomit everywhere.

"Are you okay?" John asks concerned, noticing the colour drain from Sherlock's face.

"Too bright, too noisy, too many people, John." Sherlock mumbles, looking to the floor so that he doesn't vomit on John.

"Sherlock, look at me." John says softly.

Sherlock slowly turns his head and that's when the dizziness starts, it's hard to look at John when John won't stop moving, he can feel his eyes moving up before coming back down to centre.

John looks at Sherlock closely, "Fine. We can get off at the next stop and get a cab, but this is the only time, Sherlock!"

Sherlock looks away from John and closes his eyes as he waits for the dizziness to pass. He hopes this time it won't last long, he did hope it wouldn't appear at all but apparently not. He breathes heavily through his nose, one part of his mind slowly becoming consumed by pain and the other half making observations on the voices he can hear.

"I'm sorry, Dominic, I didn't mean to miss parents evening. Did Daddy go?" _Liar, she wanted her husband to go._

"Yes, I did remember to pick up the potatoes for dinner tonight." _Oh, how domestic._

"I promise, I won't... break up with you soon." _Of course, she won't break up with him soon, no, but she does intend to break up with him._

"I have a doctor's appointment at ten tomorrow." _Yes, you have the early stages of pneumonia. Stay away from me._

"We're just going to the pub for a few drinks; I'll be back before eleven." _After having sex with some random woman there._

"My job has just been a little stressful today, Honey. I'll make it up to you on the weekend." _What a way to avoid telling someone you just got fired._

"I'm not ready to have children yet." _But you are three weeks pregnant._

Sherlock groans softly and resist the urge to put his hands over his ears. The voices and his mind are just so loud! He feels John's hand rest on his arm, the other man trying to comfort him; it brings him away from his thoughts.

"Two more minutes, Sherlock." John whispers in his ear.

Sherlock nods slightly. His head sends another wave of agony and his stomach churns horribly once more. He opens his eyes slowly; he can't exactly walk out and get a taxi with his eyes closed. The light stinging his eyes is expected, but it doesn't stop them from hurting any less, the voices grow quieter as his other sense comes back. He feels sweat trickle down the side of his face and raises a trembling hand to wipe it away. The train jerks back and forth, Sherlock bites down on his lip to stop the vomit from coming up.

Once the train slows down, Sherlock stands with John by his side, he ignores the dizziness and that he almost gagged as he stood. Once the train stops, Sherlock immediately sets forth to get away from all the people and to get a cab. If possible, the noise outside is louder and the lights are far brighter, Sherlock doubts people have ever heard of having a quiet conversation and the electricians have never heard of toning it down when they were picking how bright the lights are. He can hear John calling him, but he doesn't stop his fast pace on walking away. Sherlock forces himself to stop focusing on the pain, the sounds, the brightness, the dizziness, the nausea, and forces himself to focus on the experiment he's been working on. It isn't an effective distraction as he walks past a man with their screaming child.

"Sherlock!" John calls.

Sherlock stops and turns to face John. Once John finally reaches him, Sherlock turns around and continues towards the exit. He raises a hand to shield his eyes from the offending sunlight, breathing heavily through the onslaught of pain, and searches for a cab.

"No, I'll do it." John says from standing beside him.

Sherlock is soon in the cab, his eyes closed as he rests his head against the cool glass of the cab window.

"This is the only time, Sherlock." John whispers. He reaches out a hand, but falters slightly remembering the time Sherlock was touch sensitive and flinched away from the tiniest touch.

The taxi ride isn't as long as expected but it is quieter than expected, if you ignore Sherlock's quiet groans and whimpers. Not a word was uttered between John and Sherlock. Once the cab stopped, Sherlock quickly opened the door and went to enter the flat, leaving john to pay for the fare, which isn't a surprise.

Sherlock groans softly and curses his transport for being like this; his hands are trembling so much it's hard to get the key into the lock. He manages it just before John climbs out of the taxi, leaving him to take the key out and close the doors. Sherlock climbs up the stairs slower than his normal pace; he's not too sure what he's going to do once he reaches the flat. He knows at some point, he's going to vomit, he doesn't want to lie in bed and rest but he knows John will make sure he does, he has a case to work on, why would he be lying in bed? Sherlock runs a hand through his hair and enters 221B; he turns towards the couch, but quickly turns away and heads towards the bathroom. He makes it as far as the kitchen sink. Vomit flies out of Sherlock's mouth, coating the draining board and the sink, a small portion dribbling down the cupboard just below the sink. Despite only eating toast earlier that day, vomit continues to fly out of his mouth and land in the sink. A hand lands on his back, it makes small circling motions, a soft voice is in his ear. Sweat covers his forehead and above his lip, as soon as he's done vomiting and is certain he isn't going to vomit once more, Sherlock turns the tap on, watches as the vomit slides down and uses a cloth to wipe down his face.

"Come on, Sherlock." John murmurs in Sherlock's ear.

A hand is now touching his arm, steering him away from the kitchen, leading him towards his bedroom. John's going to make him rest; he doesn't want to rest, not yet anyway.

"But the case, John." Sherlock mumbles.

"Can wait." John replies.

"But, John, the case can't wait."

It doesn't work, by now John has led Sherlock to the bedroom and has shut the curtains in the room, blocking out the afternoon sun. Sherlock bites back a moan as his head sends more agonising waves of pain; John returns and helps him remove his suit jacket.

"You need to rest, Sherlock." John says as he places the jacket onto the hanger on the door. "Is this because we took the tube?"

"Too many people, too many noises, too much of everything, John." Sherlock replies quietly as he slides his feet out of his shoes.

John nods, slowly comprehending what Sherlock just said, "So, all those people caused you to make all those observations and all that information overloaded your brain and caused this?"

Sherlock sits down on his bed and nods slightly.

"Does this always happen?"

"Rush hour, John." Sherlock points out closing his eyes.

John rests a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and gently lowers him onto the bed to lie down. Sherlock flinches from pain as his head comes to rest on his pillow.

There's a dip in the mattress and Sherlock feels himself slowly being moved, from the pillow to John's lap. Sherlock slowly brings his legs towards him, letting out a small moan as his stomach protests at the movement. He feels fingers softly thread through his hair before they started to add pressure to his skull. He lets out a moan as the pressure makes the pain grow, he wants it to stop, John doesn't hurt him! Why is John hurting him? The pressure grows and then the fingers are rubbing small circles, he relaxes under the touch, the motion helping to soothe him. His mind quietens, no longer screaming at him about the pain, and he's tired, so very, very tired. The pain lessens, ever so slightly, but it's better than before.

"Go to sleep, Sherlock." John whispers.

"But the case, John." Sherlock protests weakly.

"It can wait a little longer." John replies.

Sherlock doesn't respond, he moves his head towards John's fingers, relishing in the way the touch lessens the pain.

John watches Sherlock closely, waiting for the moment his friend finally falls asleep. Once he sees Sherlock's features relax even more, he stops with his fingers and leans back against the headboard. He looks down at Sherlock, hating the way the younger man flinches slightly in his sleep. He hates seeing Sherlock in pain, especially over something that he can't help with. Migraines don't have a cure to them, most sufferers are recommended taking medication for the pain and even then it's not guaranteed it will work, and because of Sherlock's resistance to many pain killers, it's hard to find the right one that will work without causing negative side-effects or causing him to overdose. If a migraine is what Sherlock gets for being smart, he'd rather they happen to him.

Sherlock groans, screams fill John's mind. John freezes when he hears them, it's been a little over a month since that situation, and John still hears them the way one would if they were witnessing it happening. He had never wanted to hurt someone so much in his entire life until that moment, shining a light into someone's eyes while they're suffering a migraine is a very effective way to torture someone for information. John only wishes he was able to stop it. John breathes out heavily through his nose and forces himself to focus on the present and not the past.

He looks back down at Sherlock, the man was still pale, sweating and trembling, he wonders how long this one will last, most of Sherlock's migraines last for a day before becoming a simple headache with added irritableness. He sees Sherlock flinch again; apparently Sherlock can't escape the pain even when asleep. He gently runs his hands through Sherlock's curls once more.

John feels his stomach grumble, carefully lifting Sherlock's head with his hands, he slowly slides his legs out from under Sherlock and carefully stands up, being sure not to wake the sleeping man. He looks down at Sherlock before leaving to start some dinner. Maybe he can convince Sherlock to eat once he wakes, assuming he isn't nauseous that is, he knows Sherlock's regularly nauseous, but not all the time.

John isn't surprised when the living room light is randomly switched off just over two hours later; it only means that Sherlock must have woken up. John looks up from his laptop and squints as he tries to see through the darkness. He can barely make out Sherlock's trembling form walking unsteadily through the living room.

"You should be in bed, Sherlock." John says sternly as he stands up.

"Don' wan' to be." Sherlock replies.

"You need to rest." John says walking over to Sherlock.

"I don't care. You should be in bed." John repeats. He places a hand on Sherlock's shoulder feeling the soft blanket over them and noticing that Sherlock's trembling has only grown worse since it started. Sherlock shrugs it off and continues walking past him. John watches him walk away unsteadily; he starts to walk towards Sherlock but stops when he notices that he's walking towards the couch. "What's wrong with your bedroom?"

"Smells horrible." Sherlock mumbles as settles down on the couch, carefully lowering his head onto the cushions.

"Did you make it to the bin this time?"

"Yes." Sherlock answers as he rolls over, his back away from John.

John breathes a sigh of relief, at least Sherlock made it to the bin, it's horrible getting vomit or bile out of the carpet, sheets, or duvet.

"These migraines are really frequent, Sherlock." John says, walking towards his laptop to close the lid.

"So?" Sherlock says, his voice muffled by the cushions.

"You might need to see a doctor."

"Do no'." Sherlock replies, now curling in on himself.

"I'm only saying you might have to, Sherlock." John replies now walking towards Sherlock.

"You're my doctor." Sherlock replies.

John sighs, "Has your pain gotten worse?" He asks.

"Clearly." Sherlock says, shifting the blanket around.

"Do you want to try something new?" John asks, "Mrs. Hudson did suggest trying green tea."

Sherlock hummed a response and waved a hand dismissively. John lowers his head, out of options on what to try, he isn't just going to leave Sherlock in pain, he's going to need to do something.

"We're running out of options here, Sherlock, you shouldn't be in so much pain because of a migraine."

Sherlock groans, "Leave me 'lone, John."

John sighs and moves to sit beside Sherlock. He rests a hand on Sherlock's arm and rubs it soothingly. Sherlock only buries his face into the cushions as a response.

"Just be sure to eat in the morning. You know I have an interview tomorrow morning." John says, unsure if he's reminding himself or Sherlock. "We've got some beans and bread in the cupboards, be sure to have something to eat."

Sherlock hums his response. John rubs Sherlock's arm once more before going to leave, he takes his laptop with him as he wanders up towards his bedroom. He'll have to remove the bin from Sherlock's room before he goes to sleep.

* * *

AN: According to my friend on Skype, I project my migraine pains through Sherlock, I went through that horrendous migraine last week, Sherlock experiences the same thing AKA Chapter Nine, I experience one when going home, so does Sherlock AKA Chapter Three, and so forth. As my headaches are getting worse, I think Sherlock's might if I'm not too careful.

I'm sorry but chapter eight is just screaming to be mentioned. Had I not worked on the Sherlock on his own chapter, it would have had a follow up.

I hope you enjoyed this. Have a nice day :)

~Steffii


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock stumbles down the dark street at one fourteen in the morning. Tonight's stake-out has proven to be pointless, his suspect hadn't shown up, only his migraine had two hours ago, rendering him useless after one hour and thirty-six minutes despite taking the medication the moment he felt it coming, it's almost a good thing his suspect hadn't shown up, he isn't too sure he would have been able to stop the suspect before it's too late. The orange glow from the a street light shines in Sherlock's eyes and he groans, he wishes a taxi would show up, he doesn't want to walk around for much longer, not with how he feels.

Sherlock places a trembling hand into his pocket and pulls out his phone. Who could he contact? As much as he would hate to admit it, he does require help getting home, with the dizziness getting worse, he's not going to be able to stand for much longer let alone the forty-five minute walk home. His thumb hovers over the call button on John's name, but it soon presses the back button and puts his phone away. It's unlikely John will answer and if he does he will be given a very harsh lecture, Lestrade will likely do the same, and he isn't contacting Mycroft for help.

Sherlock wraps his coat tighter around him, the cold chill of the night and cold flush of the migraine getting to him. He feels himself tremble harder and stumbles once more, the vertigo really beginning to take its toll on him; it's becoming increasingly harder to walk properly. Sherlock stops and closes his eyes to ease the pain in them, the light radiating from the street lights only made them sting and burn, he doesn't want to keep his eyes open with those around. He knows he needs to keep walking, he knows he can't continue with his eyes shut, instead, he raises a shaking hand to shield them, he opens his eyes slowly and squints through the darkness, he feels the sweat on his hand, it certainly isn't pleasant, and continues walking.

Sherlock groans in pain and forces himself to focus on the failed stake-out. The suspect hadn't shown like he had expected them to, which means they were doing something else or Sherlock had gotten it wrong. It's likely to be the former option as he will rarely ever admit to being wrong, he wonders briefly if there will be another murder by morning, he certainly hopes there isn't, not with his migraine making its appearance. He feels something trickle down his face, unsure if it is sweat or tears from the pain and the light, but it is soon forgotten about as his stomach churns horribly. He pauses in his steps and hunches over, an arm going around his midsection, he doesn't have anything to vomit up, he's on a case, he never eats while on a case, he'll only vomit up bile. The hand shielding his eyes now covers his mouth and he is soon gagging, the movement and sound jars his agonising head only making him feel worse. He moves the hand away from his mouth as bile slithers its way up his throat, it doesn't come out of his mouth though, it slithers its way up before sliding back down, it only makes Sherlock want to vomit more but he can't find the energy to continue with it.

Sherlock remains still, breathing heavily through his nose as he waits for the right moment to continue walking. He's so tired now, so very tired, the case being physically draining, the migraine being both physically and mentally exhausting. It's using a lot of his energy to remain standing but he still has a long way to go before he reaches home. He waits, wrapping his arms around himself despite the fact of that he is now starting to feel really hot, and soon he is moving once more. To his surprise (or not), he is walking slower than he was before he almost vomited. The vertigo only feels to be getting worse and he's briefly aware of walking into someone's parked car, it needs cleaning, hasn't been cleaned in two months, the owner certainly needs to clean it at some point.

A strangled moan escapes him as his head and eyes suddenly gets worse, he wants to scream at the person driving down the street with the headlights shining so bright. A hand moves from his body and shields his eyes from the offending headlights, he forces himself to continue, stumbling in his steps as the pain grows worse and his whole body trembles harder. The headlights don't vanish, the vehicle seems to have stopped and if he intends on not being in the glare of the headlights then he needs to get moving himself quicker. There's the sound of a door being opened and quick footsteps, his mind telling him that the footsteps sound familiar but the pain is too much for Sherlock to focus on whose footsteps they are. There's a hand on his shoulder, another one on his arm, and he flinches at the touch, trying to pull away from the hands, it burns and it hurts and it's making him feel worse.

"Sherlock." The voice says quietly.

With a small burst of energy, Sherlock moves back and out of the hands that stop him. He doesn't want him to help him; he's fine with John or Lestrade or even Molly but not him. The hand on his arm remains in place, only the hand on his shoulder moves, he feels relieved when the pain lessens, but it's quickly placed on his own hand and tries to move it from shielding his eyes. A moan escapes him and he tries to step back, he has no intention of removing his hand until the headlights are gone, it hurts far too much if they remain. Except the hand on his is stronger than him right now, Sherlock is very soon looking into the... concerned? Does he actually look concerned? Sherlock would make an insult now if he could, Mycroft Holmes actually looking concerned.

"Come on, Sherlock; get into the car with me." He whispers softly.

Sherlock doesn't hide his flinch from the voice, "No."

"Don't be stubborn, Sherlock." Mycroft says, as stern as he can be while whispering.

Sherlock tries to shrug off Mycroft's hand from his arm, he curses himself when he fails to do so, and Mycroft's grip only tightens as he leads him to the car with the offending headlights. Sherlock tries to pull his arm away, it hurts and it burns and he desperately wants Mycroft to let go of him. Why can't Mycroft see that his grip hurts him? Surely Mycroft must be able to notice that.

Mycroft's grip is the only thing stopping Sherlock from stumbling as he leads him into the car. He's gently lowered into the car; his eyes are closed once more, the pain growing every moment he keeps them open. He squirms in his seat, he feels so dizzy, but he doesn't want to lean back and rest against the seat because it will only hurt and burn and he doesn't want to experience any extra pain. He feels Mycroft climb in beside him and the car starts moving, he moans at the movement as it makes his stomach churn and he's almost certain he'll vomit this time.

Sherlock buries his head into his hands as he waits for the pain to stop. He can feel Mycroft's eyes on him, his brother is likely to be sitting there, watching him carefully, unsure of what to do. He feels himself swaying; hands quickly take hold of his shoulders and force him to sit back. He lets out a strangled moan, it burns and it stings and it hurts so very much. Sherlock places his hands on top of Mycroft's and tries to get them off, it hurts and it burns and he wants it all to stop, but Mycroft's hands remain in place, they remain in place as Mycroft shifts closer towards him. Mycroft's left hand leaves his shoulder and is gently guiding his head down; he feels fabric against his cheek. A five-hundred pound suit, that's risky for Mycroft considering he's likely to vomit all over him at any moment. A hand is running through his curls and Mycroft is shushing him. He doesn't recall making noises; only the moan earlier from the movement of the car, Mycroft wouldn't be shushing him if he isn't making a sound. He must have been making some sort of sound, people have told him before that he regularly makes little moans and whimpers without realising, he must be doing it again.

If there is ever a time he hates his transport for going against him, it's now. He never hates his transport as much as he does until his migraines return. He hates how a simple headache can lead to such immense pain and a host of other problems. He hates that simply being around horrendously bright lights can cause him to experience one, he hates that sudden temperature changes in the weather can cause him to experience torturous ones, he hates how he has to stop everything once the pain becomes too much and has to wait for it to stop. He could be out catching a suspect but he's nursing a migraine instead, he could be completing an experiment but he's too busy throwing up bile and waiting for the pain to stop, he could be doing anything important but he's too busy waiting for his transport to stop its betrayal and start working with him!

He trembles hard against Mycroft and curls up in his seat.

* * *

Mycroft threads his hand through his little brother's sweaty curls slowly, he told the driver earlier to take them to Baker Street, he'd rather take Sherlock back to his home, but he knows how much Sherlock will hate it if he isn't back at Baker Street. He feels his suit jacket dampen and he doesn't need to look down to know what's causing it. Instead, he threads his hand through Sherlock's curls a little quicker and more firm than before hoping it will calm him down, it has done so many times before, now should be no different.

He hears Sherlock groan, it hurts him but he won't let anyone see that it does. It hurts knowing his little brother is in pain, it hurts knowing that his little brother is in agony and he can't do much to help him. He starts to whisper to Sherlock, shushing him, reminding him that everything will be okay, and that it is all fine. He isn't too sure what else he could say, it seems like something John would say, and he knows that John is good at calming his Sherlock down. He almost wishes he paid more attention to Nanny when they were younger, she always used to do something that helped calm Sherlock down, but he was too busy with his education and job to pay much attention to his annoying little brother. Why would he? Becoming a part of the Government was far more interesting and important than watching his babysitter care for his little brother.

He wasn't lying when he told John that he has been handling Sherlock's migraines for many years, it's that he's never entirely sure how to act when Sherlock's experiencing one. He hates being uncertain, especially when Sherlock's health is concerned. He reacts so differently to them many times, that Mycroft never quite knows his place, especially when Sherlock's aware of those around him and his acid tongue comes into place and he wants Mycroft out. Unlike right now, where Sherlock had a slight struggle earlier but has given in and is now curled up against him older brother.

The car hits a bump in the road; Mycroft feels Sherlock tense and start to gag. He moves Sherlock from him, he never did like vomit and he'd rather not get vomit all over his suit. The car hits another bump in the road and Sherlock is soon vomiting. Sweat forms on his upper lip as bile comes shooting from his mouth, Mycroft is almost pleased with himself that he managed to move Sherlock away from him, he doesn't want bile all over his suit. Once Sherlock finally stops, Mycroft notices more sweat has formed, the tremble has grown worse, and more noises are being made. Mycroft sighs silently and pulls his brother towards him, trying to ignore the flinch Sherlock makes at the touch and movement.

Mycroft fishes the keys from Sherlock's pocket, they're going to be arriving at Baker Street soon and he would rather not have to knock on the door and wait for someone to awaken.

The short journey to Baker Street passes in almost complete silence, the only sound coming from Sherlock when he makes a noise from pain. Once they arrive at Baker Street, Mycroft unlocks and opens the door before he helps Sherlock walk out of the car. The journey from the car to Sherlock's bedroom is agonisingly slow, what with Sherlock not wanting to cause himself more pain and needing to gag every few steps, and Mycroft not being used to handling so much weight, let alone someone who weighs as much as Sherlock, who is surprisingly heavy despite his thin frame. Mycroft tries his best to ignore Sherlock pained breaths, knowing that it's his little brother that's hurting and he can't do a thing about it. Really, now, it's been twenty-three years since Sherlock's first attack, Mycroft should be able to handle this without feeling those worthless sentimental emotions. Caring isn't an advantage, but sometimes, Mycroft really can't help it, especially when he can hear Sherlock's groans of pain, see and feel him flinch.

By the time they make it to Sherlock's bedroom, Mycroft is sweating and out of breath, and Sherlock is sweating buckets and gasping pained breaths. Mycroft lowers Sherlock onto the bed, immediately helping Sherlock remove his coat straight after. He doesn't need to look at Sherlock's face to see how he's feeling – Sherlock's face is pale, his eyes are clenched shut tightly, sweat dribbles down it, his hair is matted down to his forehead, and he'll be foolishly biting his lip to prevent himself from crying out. Mycroft's witnessed it more than enough times in his life, he doesn't wish nor does he need to see it again.

Mycroft hangs Sherlock's coat up on the hanger on the door; he turns back to Sherlock to see Sherlock's trembling fingers unsuccessfully try to undo the buttons on his shirt. Mycroft walks towards him slowly and takes over, feeling disheartened when Sherlock lets him without protesting. This is all very wrong, Mycroft just wants his little brother back, he doesn't want this one, this isn't Sherlock, this is as if someone's taken over, it's his body but not his mind. Mycroft hates seeing his brother so weak and in pain, there isn't much fight in him, he needs someone for support (though Sherlock will never admit to it), there's no arrogance or stubbornness, there's just this vulnerable person that needs someone to help him. And it hurts Mycroft to see him like that. Every time it happens. It hurts Mycroft. Sherlock shouldn't be the one in pain, yet he is. And there's nothing he can do to help him.

Mycroft sighs silently and pushes Sherlock's shirt off the younger man's shoulders. Sherlock's so sensitive right now that even the slightest brush of his hand across the younger man's shoulder caused him to flinch. Sherlock removes his shoes, socks, and trousers himself, leaving him in only his underwear. As Sherlock lowers himself onto the bed and curls himself up as much as he can without causing himself much more pain (which isn't much), Mycroft looks around the room, there's a chair in the far corner of the room, but he's unsure as to if he should bring it over, Sherlock has stated many times before that he has no desire for Mycroft to be around him, and John is upstairs, all he shall need to do is wake the other man up and he shall come. But will Sherlock still wish for him to leave? Mycroft looks back at his younger brother and then makes his way towards the chair, regardless of Sherlock's wishes; Mycroft will be staying, if only to assure himself that Sherlock will be fine. Sherlock needs his older brother, and Mycroft shall be there for him, if only for the reassurance of one of them, or both. When he brings the chair over and sits down, Sherlock is looking at him, his eyes pained filled and pleading, Mycroft can tell he isn't pleading for him to leave, more to stay. Mycroft reaches a hand out; he goes to take Sherlock's hand but soon stops, moving it from the direction of Sherlock's hand to his sweat filled curls. He gently threads his fingers through the hair once more, ignoring how much he hates the feeling of it as he watches Sherlock's eyes shut and Sherlock relax ever so slightly.

"It's time to sleep, Sherlock." Mycroft whispers softly.

A soft expression passes over Sherlock's face. Mycroft continues the motion until he's certain Sherlock's asleep, even though his pained expression still remains. Mycroft sits back in the chair and watches Sherlock sleep. These are the moments that rarely happen – the ones where there are no insults, no arrogance, no arguments, no childish feud, nothing at all – and moments like these are the ones Mycroft treasures the most, if only they didn't happen under such dire circumstances.

By the time morning arrives, Sherlock had woken multiple times; Mycroft had been there each time, wiping the sweat from his face, encouraging him to drink, handing him the bin when he vomited it back up, rubbing a thumb across his shoulder as soon as he was no longer touch sensitive, threading his fingers through his curls to help him back to sleep. Mycroft stands to make his leave; he looks back at his sleeping brother once more before walking out of the room. John is in the kitchen, filling the kettle up with water, a confused expression crosses his face when he sees Mycroft and Mycroft smirks at the expression. John opens his mouth to say something but Mycroft quickly cuts him off.

"Do take care of my little brother, Doctor Watson." He says quickly exiting the room as soon as he finished the sentence and leaving behind a bemused Watson.

* * *

AN: Please don't hate me for this chapter. Mycroft knows how to take care of his little brother. Yeah, sorry, having trouble with the Anderson and Donovan's chapter, ended up writing this one instead.

So, I was looking at this story from start to now, and it amazes me how much my writing has changed all because I struggled to write one chapter. **One** chapter. Wow.

I hope you enjoyed this, have a nice day :)

~Steffii


	12. Chapter 12

AN: Credit goes to **Blueskies23** and **Tempus Rose** for this chapter. Thank you for your suggestions!

* * *

Sherlock sits on the couch in Lestrade's office, his long legs have been brought close to his chest with his arms wrapped around them, his head is resting against his legs, refusing to let his back touch the couch, his eyes are closed, and his breathing controlled as he waits for the older man to return. He tries hard not to think about the reason he's sitting there, but the constant pounding of his head serves to be a reminder.

Sherlock never likes going to the bank on a Saturday. It's noisy, overcrowded, takes far longer than it's worth, and their lights are always horribly bright. The only reason he visited one today is because he has no intention of being evicted.

_"You are to pay me the rent by five o'clock today, Mr. Holmes, or you will find yourself sleeping in the streets before today ends."_

Sherlock had only nodded and grumbled. His landlord wouldn't listen to him when he asked for more time, he was feeling the starts of a migraine (brought on by stress of the recent case), going to the bank, and on a Saturday, was going to be horrendous. It then proved to be torturous, two women had a baby with them, two men had their three year old child with them, and one other woman had decided to bring her three misbehaving children with her. Why must parents always insist on taking their children with them to the bank? It is only a horrible idea, their screams and mischievous laughter and constant whining only made his head feel worse.

It didn't stop there either. One man had decided he had waited long enough, pulled a gun out and forced everyone to the ground. While, lying down did help Sherlock stop feeling so nauseous, it didn't help the situation at all. People started to scream and panic, the bank alarms were screeching in his ears for seven minutes until they were finally turned off, and he had to resist the urge to cry out in pain when the gun was fired at the ceiling. Of course. The migraine, the lights, the screaming, the hostage situation, of course that was going to happen the day Sherlock needs to pay the rent.

It's because of this that Sherlock now sits curled up on Lestrade's couch at five fifty-seven, desperately trying hard not to show his pain. He's not doing too well though; he grimaces in pain and shifts about slightly. His eyes are burning as he fights to keep the tears at bay, he's down at Scotland Yard, he isn't going to show his pain, he isn't going to cry, he isn't going to do anything like that at all. He doesn't want anyone to see how weak he is and how he can't handle a simple little headache. He bites down on his lip as the feeling of nausea builds up on him. Nope, he isn't going to vomit, not again, he's already done so once today and it was on the criminals at the bank (he got a harsh backhand slap for that); he isn't going to vomit again.

* * *

Sergeant Donovan sits at her desk writing up the report about the bank situation, it isn't their case, but as they were at the scene first, they still need to write their reports about the situation. She looks up from her computer and sees Detective Inspector Lestrade quickly come over.

"Sergeant Donovan," he says, "I need to see the Superintendent, I've got Sherlock in my office, can I just ask you to keep an eye on him. Only to make sure that he doesn't get up to anything. Not that he could in his condition." He mumbles to himself. "But just keep a close eye on him and make sure he doesn't get into any trouble. Also, try not to touch him. And if a man in an expensive suit, carrying an umbrella comes in, do not antagonise him."

Donovan nods but frowns not understanding why he wants her to babysit the man.

"Thank you." Lestrade says before quickly dashing off.

Donovan frowns as she walks away from her desk. She doesn't understand why her boss wants her to babysit the man, he's a full grown adult that should be able to take care of himself, she shouldn't be asked to babysit him. She isn't going to question his orders though, Detective Inspector Lestrade can terminate the transfer and send her back to the hell hole that was her previous job, and she certainly doesn't want that to happen.

She opens the door, turning the light on when she realises how dark it is. Why are the lights off anyway? A pained moan takes her by surprise and she jumps slightly.

"Turn the lights off." Sherlock grumbles.

Donovan looks over at the lump on the couch and ignores him.

"If I have to babysit you, Holmes, then I would prefer having the lights on." She replies in contempt, "As much as I'd rather not, I will at least be able to see what you're doing."

Donovan walks through the office, looking around for a while as she sits down on one of the chairs opposite Lestrade's desk.

"So Lestrade has you babysitting me?" Sherlock mumbles, "I don't see why, it's not like I'm going to do anything."

Donovan watches Sherlock carefully, there is something not right with him, she can tell. He's trembling, but it isn't cold in the office, and there's no way he can be cold with that big coat of his. He hasn't opened his eyes to look at her; he almost appears to be huddled in on himself – sitting forward on his seat with his legs brought close to his body and his chin sitting on his knees. She frowns slightly, Sherlock doesn't seem well but she isn't about to voice her concern.

"Where is Lestrade anyway?" Sherlock asks.

"He's with the Superintendent, probably talking about the bank robbery and how we weren't supposed to be there." She finishes accusingly.

"If I hadn't called him, then it would likely to still be happening with a few dead or injured hostages." Sherlock replies condescendingly.

"You should have called the police. Robberies have nothing to do with us." She replies.

"Lestrade is and was quicker than them."

"We are **homicide** detectives, we don't handle robberies." Donovan points out.

"Yet he still came." Sherlock replies. "Will you just turn the lights off?!" He almost shouts.

Donovan jerks back a bit in surprise but quickly recovers. "I don't see why you want them off. I'd rather-"

Sherlock interrupts her, "Just turn them off, Donovan!"

Donovan rolls her eyes at him and goes to turn them off. The darkness doesn't make much difference and she can still see where everything is. She's about to voice an insult but stops when Sherlock dramatically throws himself forward to vomit in the bin beside the couch. She stands there in shock as she watches him throw up into the bin. He isn't exactly vomiting, more dry heaving. Donovan winces at the force of them as she stands there feeling awkwardly. Normally, if this were a witness who was vomiting because of something they'd seen, she would reassure them, let them know that everything's going to be okay, but this is Holmes. Holmes isn't normal, he shouldn't be dry heaving into some waste bin, he shouldn't be acting this way, and more importantly, she shouldn't be babysitting him!

"Are you okay?" She asks once he finishes.

"I'm fine, just fine." He replies, his voice hoarse.

Donovan's eyes widen at his response. He just vomited into a bin and is claiming to be fine? "Go home, Holmes. Nobody wants your illness." She says. Goodness knows she doesn't, she's recently had a bad case of flu, she certainly doesn't want to catch whatever Holmes has got.

Sherlock ignores her and asks something else, "When will Lestrade return?"

"I don't know. Why do you need to know?" she replies, watching as he tries to stand.

Sherlock wavers unsteadily on his feet and slowly walks towards the door. Donovan goes to block his way.

"You're not going out there." She says sternly, crossing her arms as she does so.

"Why not?" Sherlock asks sounding somewhat annoyed, stopping a few steps in front of her.

"For one, the Inspector wants you to stay in here. You're sick too; nobody wants to fall ill because of you. And I'm not letting you leave." Now that he's close to her she can really look at him. His eyes aren't open properly – they're half-closed, almost as if he's falling asleep – there's sweat on his forehead, and she can definitely see the tremble in his shoulders. "Why are you here anyway? You're clearly ill."

"Ask Lestrade," Sherlock grumbles, "he seems determined to stop me from leaving."

Donovan frowns; she doesn't understand why the Inspector would stop Holmes from going home especially as he's ill. She's seen the two together, he would have sent Sherlock home long before now if he'd arrived at a crime scene ill. She sees Sherlock sway on his feet, and on instinct, Donovan reaches her hands out to stop him from falling. There's a strangled cry of pain, then her hands are being shoved away. It's at that point she remembers what Lestrade had told her.

_"Try not to touch him."_

"What is wrong with you?" She cries angrily, annoyed that her attempts to help have been disregarded.

"Nothing you need to know about." Sherlock replies, breathing heavily with his eyes closed tightly.

The door behind her opens unexpectedly, Donovan takes a step forward but keeps her eyes trained on Holmes. He's holding an arm up to shield his eyes from the onset of light; she can see he's in pain and that the trembling has definitely gotten worse.

"Sally, what's going on?"

"Oh, Anderson, what are you doing here?" Sherlock moans.

Donovan frowns at Sherlock, his voice sounds a lot stronger now than it did before, is he faking it?

"I work here," Anderson replies offended, "unlike some people."

"If you were any good at your job then Lestrade wouldn't need to call me." Sherlock retorts.

Donovan looks at Sherlock closely, there's definitely something wrong with him, but she can see he's trying to hide it; he's in control of his body.

"Oh, please, Lestrade doesn't call you for the help."

"Stop it! Shut up, you two!" Donovan shouts, watching Sherlock try his best to hide the obvious flinch. "Holmes, you are going to sit back down and wait for the Inspector to return before you can leave!" Donovan orders, when Sherlock doesn't move she tries again, "Now!"

Donovan watches satisfied as Sherlock grumbles and walks back over to the settee to sit down. Then she turns to Anderson.

"If you're just going to cause arguments then you can leave."

"He started it." Anderson grumbles not once moving from his spot in the doorway.

Donovan glares at him, she doesn't wait for him to leave, she wanders over to Sherlock who's decided to curl up again on it, and crouches down beside him.

"What is wrong with you?" She asks, trying to get a good look at his face through his arms.

"Why do you care?" Sherlock asks, failing to hide the slight tremble in his voce.

"I don't." Donovan says, because she really doesn't, "I just want to know what is wrong with you and if it's contagious." They can't have the whole Yard falling ill because Holmes decided to spread his germs.

"He's got flu. Just leave him alone, Sally." Anderson grumbles, "I'm sure you don't want to catch it again."

Donovan ignores him, he may have flu, but she wants to hear it from the man himself.

"It's not flu." Sherlock forces out, "It's also not contagious."

Donovan watches him, he's losing control of his body – the tremble in his shoulders, the tightness of his voice, the tightly clenched hands as he slowly loses control – this isn't flu.

"Are you going to tell me what it is?" She almost feels as if she's trying to talk a victim out of their shell.

There's a pause before a reply, "Why should I? You can't do anything to help."

"Just leave him alone, Sally." Anderson says loudly.

Sally ignores him, her attention remaining on the clearly ill man in front of her.

"If you weren't such an idiot, Anderson, you will know she is only trying to do her job!" Sherlock shouts removing his head from his arms and quickly jumping up to stand. "I can't possibly understand why because I am fully capable of taking care of myself!"

Donovan stands up, unconsciously stamping her foot in anger. "You think I want to watch you?" She shouts, "I'm only here because Inspector Lestrade asked me to!"

"Then leave!" Sherlock shouts, sweat trickling down the side of his face, "Nobody here is stopping you! I don't want you here."

"Don't talk to Sally that way!" Anderson growls out, quickly moving to stand by Donovan's side.

"Why are you still here, Anderson?" Sherlock grinds out through clenched teeth, "I believe you have a job to do, a job you're not good at, but you still have one or are you really that stupid you don't remember?"

"At least I have an actual job, I'm not some freak like you who's only here because he gets off on dead bodies."

Donovan's mouth drops as she looks at Anderson, she looks back at Sherlock, about to say something when someone else interrupts them.

"What's going on in here? Anderson, why aren't you down in forensics?"

Anderson shuffles side to side on his feet before quickly leaving the room.

"I told you I don't need a babysitter, Lestrade!" Sherlock moans almost childishly.

Lestrade walks towards them, "If I had just left you on your own where would you be right now?" Lestrade doesn't wait for a response before he continues, "You'd likely be passed out in some filthy alley. At least with Sergeant Donovan here you couldn't leave."

"I almost did." Sherlock mumbles, swaying on his feet slightly.

Lestrade frowns, wrapping an arm around Sherlock's waist to lower him back down on the settee. Donovan feels as if she's intruding in a private moment between the pair.

"But Sergeant Donovan stopped you."

Sherlock scoffs, "If my transport wasn't as weak as it is now then she'd never have succeeded."

"A migraine doesn't make you weak, Sherlock."

Donovan contemplates what she just heard. A migraine? Sherlock Holmes brought down by a migraine? A bit dramatic for a migraine, that's for sure.

Donovan chooses that moment to leave, so she walks away slowly and quietly hoping neither man notices her disappearance. As soon as she closes the door behind her, she's stopped by a man in an expensive suit while carrying an umbrella.

"Sergeant Donovan," he says, "I trust this is Detective Inspector Lestrade's office."

"Yes it is." Donovan replies, now acting her proper professional self, "May I ask why you're here?"

The man smiles tightly, "The Inspector called me in to pick up my little brother. Not that he needed to, I was going to arrive regardless of what either man had said." The man then lowers his voice and the tight smile vanishes, "If I ever find out you intentionally harmed Sherlock, even in his condition, then I shall ensure that you will have trouble finding a job in England."

Donovan's mouth opens in shock, "Are you threatening me?"

"Do not make me act upon it." He says before stepping around her to enter Lestrade's office.

* * *

AN: This chapter took forever because I struggled so much with this it is unbelievable and I'm still not satisfied with it.

I keep receiving comments about the whole "Sunshine" thing that Lestrade calls Sherlock in Chapter three, so allow me to explain it: being a Sherstrade fan and a Paternal!Lestrade fan, I believe that Lestrade would call Sherlock "Sunshine" at certain points in his life. In chapter three it was mostly written in as encouragement and reassurance. I've seen "Sunshine" being written into many Sherstrade and Paternal!Lestrade fics, I simply decided to write it into mine. If you really wish it, then the next chapter will be the explanation chapter or I can remove it from chapter three and upcoming chapters. Your choice.

I hope you enjoyed this! Have a nice day!

~Steffii


	13. Chapter 13

The trembling would come first, whether it be his hands or his shoulders, the trembling always happens first. The nausea would come next; he'd notice a hand travelling to the abdomen and the man shifting around in discomfort also followed by the occasional swallowing. Dizziness would follow shortly after, the man would lightly sway without realising, whether he is sitting or standing, he would always sway, barely noticeable unless one's focusing and looking out for it. The odd blinking will happen next, except that all depended on the symptoms the man experiences. The grimacing and wincing will happen whenever the pain starts, the pain regularly starts just before the tremble, but Sherlock is very good at hiding it. The slurring of his words starts happening when it's gotten so bad and Sherlock just can't make the effort to talk properly anymore.

Sometimes Sherlock would take something. Sometimes willingly, other times it's not so willing and John's practically forced Sherlock to take something. They've tried a number of different treatments – caffeine, Lucozade, drinking more water, different pain medications, cold compresses, adapting Sherlock's diet, trying (and failing) to get Sherlock to sleep more and longer, testing the use of certain oils. Sometimes they work, sometimes they don't. It's almost like a game of hit and miss. Get it at the right time and the pain will lessen, occasionally disappear completely. Get it at the wrong time and it will have no effect on the pain whatsoever.

Sherlock doesn't like to admit to pain, not many people do, why would they? So most of the time, John's had to determine himself whether or not Sherlock is in pain because admitting to pain is not something he would do, that's almost like admitting to a weakness, Sherlock likes to be seen as strong, not this weakling that can't handle a simple headache (Sherlock's words, not his own). Sherlock's as proud as a peacock. So the most of the time, John has to determine himself whether or not Sherlock is in pain, and when confronted about it, Sherlock will likely deny it. On the odd occasion though, Sherlock will admit to being in pain, he will admit to feeling pain coming, he will admit to being in so much pain he almost wants to curl up and hide away. It's times like those that make John want to smile, despite how dire the situation is. The reason being because it means he's earned Sherlock's trust. It means that Sherlock trusts him enough to admit to a weakness, that he wants John to see him at one of his worst moments, and that he trusts John enough to see him, treat him without making fun of him.

He dreads the occasions though. To watch one of the smartest people he knows, his hero in some sense, a good man, just deteriorate into this blubbering mess because Sherlock is not above becoming a blubbering mess when the pain gets so bad. John's been vomited upon, cried up, used as a human scratching post, bruised, and held onto as if he'd disappear within a second (John suspects this is because Sherlock wants to keep his hold on reality and to not fall into the pit of pain). It hurts John to see his friend in so much pain and not being able to stop it. To be so powerless while his friend suffers. To be so healthy, so free of pain, while his friend is experiencing one of the worst kinds of physical pain. It's one of those things that hurt more than a physical wound ever could. He once doubted that was possible, especially after being shot in Afghanistan. But it is possible; it's something John experiences when Sherlock's in pain. Now he knows that one of the worst kinds of pain is watching his best friend in pain and be unable to do anything to help him. He's a doctor! He's medically trained to help those ill, injured, and in pain, but this is something he can't help. This is something he feels so helpless over. So powerless over. It goes against his medical instincts, but he knows he can't do anything. So he fights back those instincts, forces himself to calm down, and becomes the friend Sherlock needs.

There are times when Sherlock willingly rests, in his bedroom or on the couch, in the darkness, under a pillow or under a dark blue blanket. But there are times where John has to practically drag him to the bed or the couch and almost sit on him just to get him to rest. These are times he also dreads. He prefers it when Sherlock willingly rests; it's much easier to get him to relax enough to get the younger man to sleep. When John has to practically drag Sherlock to his bed it's hard, he doesn't relax, he's tense; he's always trying to find some reason to get out of bed, trying to think of some excuse, some way to prove he's fine. It takes a lot just to get Sherlock to relaxed enough just to sleep. That's only the times when the pain isn't so bad. When the pain stops him from sleeping, they need to compromise. John regularly treads his fingers through Sherlock's hair; he regularly has to whisper into Sherlock's ear (he's found talking in French works best. Another thing he suspects came from that Violet person), recreating certain smells and temperatures (goodness knows how that helps, but it does).

John doesn't like it when there's nobody with Sherlock. He knows Sherlock's been on his own many times, he knows that Sherlock's just fine on his own, he knows that Sherlock's not a little boy that needs to be watched over. But John likes it when there's somebody with him because there's no knowing how strong the migraine's going to be and Sherlock is not above hurting himself to distract him from the pain happening in his head. The most of it is fingernail cuts in the palm of his hands, simple little things that'll heal in a few days, but sometimes, when the migraine is so strong and the pain is so bad, Sherlock is not above making himself bleed. He won't necessarily pick up something sharp and cut himself, no, Sherlock's not like that, but he will find ways to cause himself pain. Anything to distract himself from the pain in his head. John once had to treat a long gash across the back of his hand and several across his arm, accompanied from protecting his face due to throwing a glass at a wall while standing barely a few feet away. It's a time like this where John needed to hold Sherlock down, it's only happened once, but once is more than enough times for John. The palms of Sherlock's hands were torn up, Sherlock was going to do worse damage had John not come home and stopped him. John entered the next day with scratches running up and down his arms, bruises upon both his wrists from how hard he had been gripped, and Sherlock finally asleep. It's not something John ever wishes to experience again.

John's spoken to the others about it. Of course, he's had to do it when Sherlock isn't around; goodness knows how Sherlock likes his privacy. He's found out that Sherlock is somewhat more open about them, Lestrade had stated that you would never know if Sherlock had one until he was vomiting everywhere or ready to collapse. Sherlock isn't much different now, he still doesn't admit to them so soon, but John's grateful he's aware of them before Sherlock vomits everywhere or about ready to collapse. He'd found from both Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson that Sherlock calms best to certain reactions from those around, most of these John had learnt himself, but they supplied him with extra. He learnt quite a bit from Mycroft. Mycroft wasn't the most open of people about these things, so the most he's actually received from Mycroft is actually in a medical file hidden upstairs under John's bed, but there are times when Mycroft has shared moments from his childhood, John learnt that Sherlock far more in control with himself now than he ever was before. John can see that Mycroft wishes he knew more than he does now, John almost pictures Mycroft to be the big brother that cared more about his own education than his younger sibling, given the age Mycroft was at the time, John could see why. John himself was similar. When John was fifteen to eighteen he didn't give much care about what Harry was up to, he had his exams, medical school, and his career to think about. At that time in his life, he didn't care much that his older sister was losing herself in alcohol. Not when his whole future was at stake.

He'd even learnt that Molly knew about them. Considering how Sherlock treats her, it wasn't something he expected. But it turns out that she had entered the lab during his moment of weakness, Sherlock with his head in his hands, vomit on the floor, and all lights out. She'd told him that he was still determined to finish his experiment; it wasn't until she phoned Lestrade to come and collect him that he'd finally stopped. It's a testament as to how determined Sherlock will be to finish something regardless of the pain he's in. Something he's learnt himself and from Lestrade. Just thinking about the time Lestrade told him about the Gander case makes him wish Sherlock wasn't so stupid and would actually rest. Sherlock should consider himself lucky that they're both still alive.

He wishes he could talk to Violet. Given how Mycroft's spoken about her, she's the one with the most knowledge, but nobody seems to know what's happened to her. She vanished once Sherlock had left for University; it makes him wonder if Sherlock knows what has happened to her but Violet's a taboo subject. John had mentioned her after Sherlock recovered from his bout of pneumonia; the only response he received from Sherlock was a tensed silence followed quickly by shut up.

John watches Sherlock as he informs Lestrade of his observations and deductions in rapid succession, the spark in his eyes and the swiftness in his movement. No signs to show that he was in horrible pain the day before. Nothing to indicate that the brilliant mind of his had gone into overdrive, shut down, and then cause him great amount of pain. For now, Sherlock is physically healthy, until the next one that is.

When the movements start to slow down and they start becoming stiff and trembling. When the smooth voice starts to stutter and slur. When the intelligent eyes become pained eyes and the spark disappears. When the smooth curls become sweat filled and stick to his head. When the body protests and leaves him holding onto the toilet as he vomits. When the mind just causes such pain he almost passes out.

He wonders when the next one will happen. Sherlock can either have them once or month or twice a week, he suffered through one just the other day, but this month's only just started. There are still another twenty-six days until it ends, another three and a half weeks until the next month begins. He's going to make sure Sherlock has as few as possible, even if that does mean ignoring his protests and almost forcing him to do as he's told.

There's a moment where Sherlock looks at Lestrade and then at John, his eyes are wide, his jaw has dropped, the look of realisation is upon his face. Suddenly he's dashing forward with his great long coat swishing behind him and he's crying out for John.

"Come on, John! We have a suspect to catch!"

Lestrade's protesting, shouting at Sherlock to come back and turning to look at John. John only shrugs his shoulders and runs off after Sherlock with a smile upon his face because it's these moments that John likes best. Moments when Sherlock is just Sherlock and there's nothing else, but only until the next time, and John is going to make the most of it now.

* * *

AN: I figured we'd need a John's thoughts chapter. Anyway, terribly sorry for not updating, it is a horrible moment when you manage to block the website for almost two months.

I've made a small plan about what the next chapters will consist of – A Scandal in Belgravia's next because it's possibly been too many chapters since following episodes, then I'm going to take it back several years for Mrs. Hudson and Molly, come back to real time, and then go back for teen years maybe. Unless that doesn't sound like a good idea.

I hope you enjoyed this, have a nice day.

~Steffii


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